


Spirited Away

by Chele



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Flashbacks, Romance, Slow Burn, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2019-10-10 20:19:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 67,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17432858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chele/pseuds/Chele
Summary: On top of being the Dragonborn and dealing with the civil war, Makela is trying to find out how she ended up on the executioner’s block in Helgen while working through her feelings for a certain elitist Thalmor Justiciar.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to work up the nerve to post a Skyrim story for a long time. I guess I finally have the confidence. 
> 
> Makela is based on a combination of the Dragonborns from my last couple of playthroughs. 
> 
> Side Note: I play Elder Scrolls Online as well, so there may be some references.

_“Cold,” she groans to herself as she slowly blinks her eyes open. “Where am I?” She looks down at the bindings on her wrists, then at a Stormcloak across from her as he says something about Helgen. Tuning him out, she looks around at the men sitting in the carriage with her. She makes eye contact with a blonde Nord whose mouth has been gagged.  “Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak,” she whispers to herself. She then looks around and realizes they are riding toward the executioner’s block. “Sweet Mara what have I gotten myself into?”_

“Are you ready Makela?” A deep voice whispers in her ears. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

Makela gasps, jolting from her sleep. Slowly sitting up she looks around her stone-walled bedroom in Vlindrel Hall. Realizing she’d just awoken from a dream, Makela sighs in relief. Looking at her wrists, she starts vigorously rubbing as if she’s trying to erase the imaginary rope burns left from the bindings. Except for cuts she received falling down the steps as a child, there are no visible scars on her wrists. Be that as it may, Makela always envisions grotesque burns when she looked at her arms. Perhaps that was remnants of her dream. But it's not just a dream; it’s a continuous nightmare.

Unsatisfied with the idea that the invisible scars will never go away, she stops, stares at her brown slender fingers and gathers her thoughts before pulling on a pair of black leather boots. Looking at herself in the mirror, she straightens the buckles on her bracers. “Nice,” she halfheartedly mumbles a rare compliment to herself. She places three small silver daggers in a holster wrapped around her left thigh, then slides another in a compartment on her right boot before slipping on a pair of greaves. Nearly finished dressing, Makela looks at three enchanted ebony swords lying on her trunk; deciding to leave them there for now, she grabs her black leather cuirass and walks into the dining room.

There’s something homey about Vlindrel Hall. Makela always thought it was Raerek’s eye for design that made even a former Dwarven ruin feel welcoming. But maybe it was her housecarl, Argis the Bullwark’s, genuine care for the home and its owner that made the place feel more comforting. Makela noticed him as she entered the dining, sitting in his usual spot at the dining room table, reading a book on blacksmithing. “I made some stew,” he says never looking from his book.

“Okay. Thank you. I’ll eat when I return from Understone Keep,” Makela replies, setting the cuirass on a chair then sitting across from her housecarl.

 “No, you’ll eat now,” Argis barks, setting his book on the table. “You and I both know you won’t eat much on this journey. Gods know those two dolts you’re traveling with aren’t going to make sure you eat proper meals.”

“I heard that,” Marcurio wails, entering from the foyer. “Does Jenassa know you call her a dolt behind her back?” Marcurio traipses flashing a big grin. Makela raises an eyebrow, watching Argis grimace at Marcurio’s question.

 “Good afternoon, Cousin,” he cheerfully greets Makela.

“Good afternoon, Marcurio.”

He turns to Argis. “House Boy, how are you?” Marcurio smiles, knowing how to get under Argis’ skin.

“Wizard,” Argis growls at Marcurio and returns to his book.

Always eager to help himself to Makela’s hospitality, Marcurio pours himself a glass of spiced wine then sits across from Makela. He takes a long sip from his goblet, trying to avoid her stern look, warning him not to tease Argis. “I’ll make sure Makela eats. My purpose for tagging along on this wretched adventure, is to take care of her,” Marcurio comments, knowing full well that wasn’t the whole truth. Argis rolls his eyes and slides a bowl of stew to Makela. “Eat!” He roars before resuming his book.

Makela grabs a spoon only to be stopped immediately by Argis. “Wait!” He yelps. “Do you need help with that?” He asks pointing to her cuirass. Before she can reply, Argis is already up and placing the armor over her head. “Stand up,” he commands. Once Makela is up and away from the table, he deftly laces and buckles the vest-like armor over her cotton shirt.

“Eat, wait, stand up . . . perhaps your bossy house boy should make up his mind, Makela,” Marcurio teases. So much for heeding Makela’s warning to stop teasing Argis.

“I got your house boy, Wizard,” the angry Nord snarls, fist balled up, moving toward Marcurio. Makela quickly puts her arm out, hoping to block him from advancing on Marcurio. Argis pauses and tries to regain his composure. Makela glares daggers at the immature mage. All the while, Marcurio smiles.

“What?” He chuckles. “I was kidding.”

Finishing up with Makela’s cuirass, Argis checks her matching bracers and greaves, making sure they are properly secure but not too tight. Once he’s done, he places a spoon in Makela’s hand and orders her to finish her stew.

 “Forever the mother hen,” Marcurio chortles at the housecarl, grabbing a bowl of stew for himself.

“Shut up!” Argis barks. “Someone has to take care of her.”

Marcurio gasps, pretending to be insulted.

“Eat your stew and get out, Wizard!” Argis growls, before returning to his book.

“Venison?” Makela frowns at the bowl in front of her.

“Stop frowning,” Argis orders. “It's good for you.”

Several minutes pass as Makela sits in silence picking through her stew, eating most of the vegetables while leaving chunks of venison hidden under the thick broth and large chunks of carrots. While she mindlessly plays with her food like a child, Makela senses Marcurio pretending not to watch her. “I'm just a little tired, Marcurio,” Makela sighs, inwardly thankful for the excuse to stop eating. She sets her spoon down on the table and quickly smiles.

Marcurio studies Makela. There is a melancholy in her eyes that he doesn’t like. “Did you get any sleep at all?” He inquires, not wanting to directly ask Makela what is making her sad. He had a feeling he knew the answer already.

“Yes,” she quietly responded.

“The dream?”

The dream. Dreams. Nightmares. The same damn dreams Makela has been having for months. Or were they visions or memories-- whatever they were they haunted her in her sleep. They left her with many questions but never offered any answers. Makela sighs and sets her spoon down. “Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Marcurio asks, hoping she was starting to be able to piece together the events that led her to Helgen.

“Not really. Nothing really happened. It was the one where I was in the carriage with the Stormcloaks heading to the executioner's block.” She took a sip of the tea Argis had made for her. “I woke up before anything happened.” Looking up, Makela notices Marcurio and Argis staring at her with concern and empathy. “Oh, come on. It was a dream. Stop looking at me like that.” She forces a wide smile with bright eyes and pushes herself away from the table. “I’m off to see Faleen and Jarl Igmund.” She hugs Argis and kisses him on the cheek. “I’ll see you in a few weeks.” Before he can respond, she grabs an apple from the table, then dashes down the hall and out the door. “Marcurio, grab my swords!” she yells before the heavy door slams behind her.

******

Distracted by the bang of the door to the guest suite slamming shut, Ondolemar looks up from his reports to see Alaric, one of his guards walking in holding a sealed envelope. “Where were you?” He asks setting his quill on the desk.

“I was chatting with Moth gro-Bagol.”

“Who?”

“The Jarl's blacksmith,” Alaric sighs in frustration. After all this time in Markarth, one would think Ondolemar would try to learn the names of the people he encounters day in and day out. Ondolemar shrugs in disinterest and quickly changes the subject. “What's in the envelope?”

“Oh. Elenwen is having a party for the nobles. She wants you to attend.”

“Of course, she does,” Ondolemar groans. “When? Where?” He reaches to take the envelope from Alaric. Before reading the invitation, he's disrupted by Aria, his other guard bursting through the door. “Did you see the sword Makela made last night?” She asks, running up to Alaric.

“Yes. I just left Moth's forge. She’s quite talented.”

“Exactly. She amazes me. She arrived in town late last night and immediately went to the forge. Moth says it helps her wind down.”

“What are you two prattling on about?” Ondolemar inquires, interrupting what he felt was a frivolous conversation.

“Makela,” Alaric answers.

“She's back in town,” Aria adds.

“Okay.” Ondolemar blithely responds, seemingly uninterested in their conversation or the fact that Makela was back in town. “Everyone in this town is so enamored with that flighty woman. Why?” He tosses the unopened invitation on the table. “Don’t answer. I really don’t care,” he says, stalking out the door.

******

“You can do this Makela.” Makela paces outside Understone Keep, giving herself a few words of encouragement. Sometimes one needs a little pep talk to get the day started. You never know who you may bump into. “You’re smart, not too bad on the eyes, . . . and . . . and,” she pauses too long. “You’re the fucking Dragonborn. You are a catch!!”

“You certainly are, Makela” one of the Markarth guards offers in agreement, chuckling behind her. “Not too bad on the eye? You’re beautiful.”

Crap! She'd forgotten the guards were posted nearby. Startled and embarrassed, she turns to him smiling. “You didn't see or hear anything,” she jokes before dashing into the keep.

Understone Keep is especially cold today, Makela thinks to herself as she barrels into the mountainside castle. She takes a moment to visit with Calcelmo, before storming full speed past Thonvor Silver-Blood and straight up the steps. Overcome by momentum or her normal clumsiness, she trips over the top step and right into Ondolemar. “Argh, that's not how I imagined this,” she mumbles to herself. Before the force of her contact pushes him over, he grabs her waist and steadies them both.

“Why must you always run into me?” he asks, annoyed that yet again nearly bowled over by this clumsy woman.

“Um . . . eager to see you,” Makela gleefully retorts, greeting his exasperation with a sheepish grin. As prickly as always. Oddly, Ondolemar’s off-putting demeanor makes Makela giddy and want to spend more time with him. Unfortunately, he simply huffs and walks away. After taking a few seconds to watch the haughty High Elf, she walks to Jarl Igmund’s throne. “Good afternoon, my Jarl.” Makela bows to Igmund and nods a greeting to Faleen and Raerek.

Jarl Igmund smiles, happy for the visit. “Good afternoon, Makela. What brings you here, today?”

“I wanted to see you before leaving.”

Igmund sits up in his seat. “Leaving? You just got here. Where are you going? How long will you be gone?”

“We stopped here to get Vorstag and a change of gear.” Makela sits on the dais below Jarl Igmund’s throne and stares toward the kitchen. “We’re going to Labyrinthian, then to Winterhold. Um, then we’ll head to Solitude before returning here.”

“Labyrinthian?” Faleen yelps. “Why?”

“Well . . .” Makela pauses her reply still looking in the direction of the kitchen.

“Makela! Are you listening?” Jarl Igmund yells, trying to get her attention.

“Oh. Yes. Sorry. Well . . . there’s a lot of chaos going on at the College of Winterhold.”

“Of course, there is. What kind of chaos?” Igmund voice quakes with alarm as he asks about yet another problem at that ridiculous college.

Makela has always attracted danger, so much so, it shouldn't have surprised anyone when she casually strolled in town, four weeks behind schedule, with a healing head injury and no memories. Since that day, Jarl Igmund and Faleen have hovered over her as if she was a newborn. Although, her injury has completely healed and she's regained her memories, they still worry every time she leaves town.

Family always worries. Faleen, Makela’s cousin on her mother's side thought she'd become used to Makela's dalliances with danger. Ever since they were children, the dragonborn always knew how find trouble; whether she was looking for it or not.

Makela stole Jarl Igmund's heart when she was a little girl. She lived in Markarth with her mother and brother for a couple years while her mother worked as a diplomat on behalf of the Empire. Because her father, An Imperial Legion officer at the time, spent a great deal of time away, Makela would refer to Igmund as her Markarth father. Of course, that didn't sit well with her actual father; Igmund loved it and has been treated as family since then.

“You don’t want to know.” Makela’s nonchalant reply annoys both Igmund and Faleen. Igmund gives a distressed sigh and rubs his temples. “Anyway,” Makela continues. “Savos Aren, the arch mage, was killed in the . . . um, upheaval. Mirabelle Ervine asked me to go to Labyrinthian to retrieve the Staff of Magnus, a staff that may help . . . resolve it.”

“What?” Igmund startles himself when he yells this time. “Makela? Makela? What are you staring at?”

Igmund, Faleen, and Raerek stand up and lean over Makela to see Ondolemar fussing at his guards about being late for lunch and that ‘annoying dog’ in the hall. Makela hops up and runs toward the irritated Altmer. She smiles at him as she runs into the kitchen.

“What is she doing?” Igmund inquires.

After a few minutes, Makela walks up to Ondolemar, Alaric and Aria. Ondolemar looks down at her smiling face and becomes more aggravated. “What is it now?” He barks, possibly beyond his limits with the people of Markarth. Makela rubs the dog behind the ear then lures him away before stopping in the kitchen. Afterward, she takes Ondolemar’s hand into both of hers. “Anton has set up a late lunch for you.”

“What?” Ondolemar queries, slightly dumbstruck by the gesture.

“Come on,” Makela starts to pull him toward the kitchen.

“Wait a minute. What are you doing?” Ondolemar yelps. She touches his hands all the time, and every time it felt as if a jolt of electricity was released into his body. He hated to admit it, but he loved when she spontaneously took his hands. He almost looked forward to it. The mysterious sensation from her touch, left him confused, yet he yearned for it. Quickly he looked down at their joined hands. Had she cast a sparks spell on him? _Of course, she didn't, don't be ridiculous, Ondolemar._ He admonished himself and returned his attention to her sparkling eyes. _How does she make her eyes smile like that?_

“Come on. Your lunch is being set out.” She looks at Aria and Alaric. “Yours, too.” Her beaming smile causes his voice to catch in his throat before he can voice his objection. As Makela continues leading Ondolemar to the kitchen, a Markarth guard walks by.

“Hello, Makela,” the guard politely greets her.

Makela turns toward the guard and smiles sweetly. “Good afternoon, Marcellus. How are you?”

“I’m great. How are you?”

“I’m wonderful. Thank you very much.” Makela offers the guard another cheerful smile and starts to pull Ondolemar to their intended destination.

“Makela!” The guard calls out. “Why do you always call me Marcellus?”

 Makela pauses and looks up at Ondolemar, who appears to be curious about the answer as well; then back to the guard. “You remind me of my father. I mean, you look a little like him. His name is Marcellus, so I call you Marcellus.”

The guard smiles at her. “Really? But, I’m not a Redguard.”

Makela’s eyes widen, slightly and she brightens her smile. “That’s fine. Neither is he.”

“Your father is a Nord?”

Makela chuckles, turns to look up at Ondolemar and then back to the guard. “Redguard and Nord aren’t the only options.” The guard gives her an inquisitive but confused look; Makela’s smile never leaves her face. “Imperial. My father is an Imperial.”

“Oh!” The guard replies, even more confused. “You’re an Imperial.”

“I’m mixed race. My father is an Imperial, and my mother a Redguard.”

“Oh, really? Fascinating,” the guard remarks.

“It is. Isn’t it?” She looks at the guard a few seconds longer then takes a step toward the kitchen.

“Makela!” The guard calls her once again. Only Ondolemar can see that she’s becoming exasperated. Still smiling, she looks the guard in his eyes. “You are a very pretty woman,” he tells her without hesitation. His blunt honesty stuns her. Heat slowly creeps up her already red-hued cheeks. She looks down at Ondolemar’s hand, then the guard.

 “Thank you, Marcel . . . Gunnar,” she replies bashfully. “That is very sweet of you to say.”

In complete agreement with Gunnar’s compliment, Ondolemar looks at Makela as If he’s seeing her for the first time. He takes note of her vibrant red tinged brown skin and her black wavy that’s hair pulled back into a braided bun. A few loose ringlets dance on the sides of her round face framing her, suddenly noticeable, combined Redguard and Imperial features. Now fully aware, he wonders how he missed the angles of her high cheekbones. Or her perfectly imperfect petite nose with a small cut on the bridge; set above her beautiful full lips. He stands, suddenly amazed by her gentle up-turned brown eyes, that shine beneath her uneven eyebrows. Finally, he looks at her all black, form-fitting, leather and cotton armor, which looks suspiciously like Dark Brother Shroud armor. _Dark Brotherhood? Impossible. Right?_

“It’s true.” Gunnar states confidently. Pulling Ondolemar from his thoughts.

Overcome by a sudden shyness, Makela turns and buries her blushing face into the broad chest in front of her. Ondolemar is shocked but a tad happy to see the confident warrior hiding her face against him.

As soon as her face contacts Ondolemar, she knows she should pull away immediately, but for some reason she can’t make herself. Over the past several visits to Understone Keep, she’d made up reasons to touch the grumpy but handsome Thalmor Justiciar. Most of the time Makela would accidentally on purpose bump into him. Like today, on occasion, she’d be bold enough to grab his hand. However, leaning into Ondolemar was a first and she was not eager to pull away from him. _He’s not resisting. Why pull away?_ There was a part of her that wanted to lean further into him. Maybe even wrap her arms around him, but she thought wiser. _Not yet. Baby steps, Makela_.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of Gunnar clearing his throat. “Um, Makela,” he nervously steps forward. “Would… would… when you come back to town, would you like to go with me to the Silver-Blood Inn for drinks?”

SILENCE.

Three pair of eyes land on Ondolemar looking for his reaction. Alaric stifles a chuckle while Aria openly grins at the scene playing out before her. Makela doesn’t really expect anything from him but raises an eyebrow when she notices him blinking rapidly. _Is he okay?_ She wonders to herself. Still holding Ondolemar’s hand, she turns to give Gunnar her full attention. 

Ondolemar’s face is stoic, completely clear of any emotion. On the inside he's fighting a mystifying battle within himself. _Wait! Is he asking her out; making a move, while she’s holding my hand? This man is… I don’t know what he is. Bold? Shouldn’t he walk her to the other side of the keep. Or at least wait until she’s no longer holding MY HAND. Why am I bothered? --_ Ondolemar is stunned by his sudden wave of emotions; anger, fear…jealousy. Oh no, no, no, that can’t be jealousy. Well, maybe just a twinge.

To everyone’s surprise, Gunnar doesn’t notice the sudden chill around them or he’s completely unconcerned, as he continues his pitch to spend time with Makela. “I, I know you don’t like mead or drink wine, but Klepper makes a fine Falkreath Rosy Mead and,” he pauses. “Wait, that’s tea. It.. it’s not really mead.”

“I know,” Makela responds smiling widely.

 _Is she smiling at him? Is she considering this?_ Ondolemar tightens his grip on Makela’s hand.

“Oh! And Frabbi makes a delicious potato soup and the best salmon steak in the Reach. That’s if you’d like to stay long enough to have a meal with me.” Gunnar stands up straight and quickly looks around. “Oh, don’t tell Anton what I said about the salmon.”

“I won’t,” Makela chuckles.

“So, what do you think? Would you like to have a drink with me when you return?

Makela takes a quick peak at Ondolemar, who’s staring straight ahead, as if he’s not part of the situation. She’s gives his hand a quick squeeze, more so to reassure herself, than him; Gods knows she couldn’t tell if he cared one way or another if she spent time with Gunnar or any other person for that matter.

“Okay!”

 _Wait! WHAT?! She did not just agree to have a drink and possibly a meal with this man. Surely, this is mistake._ Ondolemar attempts to free his hand from her grasp, but she holds tighter. _Release my hand, silly woman._ He groans to himself. Quickly quashing is efforts to be free of her touch. What would be the point in wrestling away from her? She has no intention of letting go and he’s not sure that’s what he wants.

“Really?” A stunned Gunnar blurts out.

“Yes.” Makela gives him a genuine smile. I won’t be back for a few weeks, but when I return, I will spend time with you at the Silver-Blood Inn . Gunnar beams like a child who’s just received their first practice sword. Ondolemar, on the other hand, groans as if he was just defeated by said child.

Returning her attention to the irritated Thalmor, Makela turns toward the kitchen. Undeterred by his slight hesitation, she marches forward. “Come along,” she urges Ondolemar, already forgetting about Gunnar.

“Hey!” A voice yells out from Jarl Igmund’s dais.

 Thwarted again.

“Marcurio” Makela huffs, immediately burying her face into Ondolemar’s chest. “Sweet Mara, I was almost there.” Face still pressed against the stunned Thalmor, she turns to see Marcurio and Vorstag standing next to Faleen.

“Come on!” Marcurio shouts. “Jenassa is waiting by the carriage.”

“Oh, damn!” Disappointed, Makela looks up at Ondolemar. “Well, I have to leave, now.” Pouting never looked so cute on a grown woman. Ondolemar tries to hide the smile playing at his lips. He’d have to memorize this image and keep it for another time. “Go eat your lunch,” she orders with a doe-eyed smile.  “Anton will cook your meals whenever you want.” She quickly looks back at Marcurio then to Ondolemar. “He’ll put sweet rolls to the side just for you.” Makela releases his hand and takes a step backwards. His hand almost feels useless as Makela finally lets it go. “I’ll be back in a few weeks. Maybe we can. . . never mind.” She nods a farewell to Alaric, Aria, and Gunnar, then looks back at him. “See you next time.” After one last smile, she runs to the throne and hugs Faleen, Igmund, and Raerek.

Marcurio notices the worry in Faleen’s eyes. “Don’t fret, cousin of my cousin,” he says wrapping her into a brotherly hug. “I will take care of her, like always.”

“You better,” Faleen smiles, comforted that he’ll that watch out for their reckless cousin.

Before they leave, Makela sneezes, and Marcurio notices her scratching at a small rash developing on her hands. “What did you do?” He asks, briefly glaring at Ondolemar. He takes a small healing poultice from his pack and begins rubbing it onto her hands. When he’s done, they dash for the steps.

“Be careful,” Faleen yells as the three of them race out of Understone Keep.

“You owe me ten gold,” Vorstag says to Marcurio as they exit Understone Keep. “I told you she’d be with him.”

Back at the throne Jarl Igmund quizzically looks at Faleen, clearly befuddled by what he just witnessed. “She fancies him,” Faleen casually replies. The two of them look down at Ondolemar, who is staring at his hand, obviously contemplating the situation himself.

Aria chuckles at her clueless superior. “Makela must really like you,” she says eying Ondolemar’s confusion.

“How so? It’s just lunch.”

“Well, it’s not just lunch,” Alaric chimes in, a bit perturbed. “It’s all of your meals. All of _our_ meals.” He starts heading for the kitchen.

“For Auriel’s sake, she asked Anton to sate your obsession with sweet rolls,” Aria adds.

“By the way, she’s allergic to dogs,” Alaric yells over his shoulder.

Speechless, Ondolemar looks at Gunnar. “She is,” Gunnar confirms before Aria wraps her arm around his shoulder.

“I like your style, Gunnar,” she playfully remarks, leading him to the kitchen. “Why don’t you have lunch with us?”

Outside, near the stables, Jenassa is leaning against a fully packed carriage watching as Makela, Marcurio, and Vorstag arrive. “What took so long?” She queries, hopping into the driver’s seat and taking the reins.

“The Thalmor.” Marcurio and Vorstag answer in unison. Sighing, Jenassa reaches into her pack, pulls out a satchel of gold and tosses it to Vorstag.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Makela didn’t expect to have an easy time dealing with the Eye of Magnus and Ancano, but she never would have believed he would completely lose his mind. What in Oblivion had gotten into him? Was he working on the orders of the Thalmor or acting on his own? Whatever the case, she had managed to put him down without killing him. The last thing she needed was the Thalmor coming after her over this lunatic. However, after the chaos caused by the Eye of Magnus, it was clear that they may have overstayed their welcome in Winterhold. With that said, resting for a few hours was not an option. Makela decides it would be best to leave and take Ancano to Solitude, believing General Tullius would be better equipped to deal with him.

The night air was bitterly cold, making the ride from Winterhold extremely uncomfortable. Camping outside was completely out of the question, so the group changed their original plan to ride all the way through to Solitude and decides it would be best to stop in Dawnstar for the night.

Rest. All Makela wanted was rest. The final fight with Ancano was intense. The battle, overwhelming and more than she expected. Fighting against unfamiliar magic was one thing but losing the aid of your companions while dealing with a power hungry, deranged mage pushed Makela to her limits and beyond.

“Hey, Arch-Mage!” Marcurio bellows across the carriage to Makela. “Did you spare this guy because of your Thalmor lover?”        

_Lover?_ “If only,” Makela mumbles to herself. Sitting snuggled under several fur pelts against Vorstag, she looks over at a passed out Ancano. “Of course not,” she replies. “Why kill him when we can turn him over to General Tullius?” Deep down, she wishes she’d killed him. The death and damage Ancano left in his wake; he deserved to die. In that moment, Makela regrets not finishing off or at least asking Quaranir to take him along with the Eye of Magnus. Unfortunately, killing or disappearing Ancano would probably lead to the Thalmor storming through Winterhold to investigate. The last thing the college and the town needs is to deal with that nonsense. Shaking off those thoughts, Makela pulls the pelts up to her neck and nuzzles closer to Vorstag.

“Why are you snuggled up on him?” Marcurio inquires, shaking his head at them.

“I’m cold,” Makela complains. “He’s the warmest person in the carriage.”

“You’re covered in three pelts. How can you still be cold?”

Makela sits up and looks around at the surrounding environment; snow and ice cover everything for miles. “Are you kidding me?” She asks, throwing her hands gesturing toward their tundra back-drop. “I’ve spent most of my life in Cyrodiil and Hammerfell. “This…” she gestures wildly around herself. “…is almost the opposite of the Alik'r Desert.”

While they’re bickering, Ancano starts to stir. Before he can awaken, Makela lightly zaps him with a sparks spell in the temple; quickly knocking him out. Marcurio gives her a disapproving look. “What?” Makela groans. “It won’t kill him.”

Jenassa, who’s driving the carriage, looks back at them and chuckles. “We’re almost there.”

Makela and Marcurio banter back and forth for a few more minutes, before she finds herself lost in thought. Replaying various incidents throughout her time at the College of Winterhold; wondering what she could have done differently. Could she have saved them? Did Savos and Mirabelle need to die? _Mirabelle_. Makela feels guilty over her death. Maybe she wouldn’t have been killed if they had immediately returned from Labyrinthian. But they didn’t. They went to Windstad Manor so Makela could spend a little time with her children and sleep in her own bed. _We shouldn’t have stopped._

“It wasn’t your fault,” a muffled voice says over Makela’s head. “Hey! Hey!”

Vorstag shoulders Makela to get her attention. She looks up at him ready to tear up. “It wasn’t your fault,” he calmly repeats.

“But we stopped,” she replies, choking back the desire to cry. “Maybe I could have saved her, if we hadn’t stopped.”

“You don’t know that,” Vorstag states emphatically. He lifts her chin so she’s looking into his eyes. “Ancano was out of control. Mirabelle did what she had to do to save her people.”

“But …”

“No!” Vorstag shakes his head. “You never ask to stop to rest. You always push through at your own detriment. So, if you ask to stop, you better damn well believe we are going to stop.” Vorstag sighs, realizing Makela is becoming too emotionally involved with the people of Skyrim. For years, he has been more like a brother to her, than a best friend. Overprotective to a fault, he’s always been there even when she thought she could handle things on her own.        

Makela turns her head from her friend, taking a deep breath. She sits quietly for a few moments, taking in the sounds of the various animals in the area. “Okay!” She says, not turning back to Vorstag. Done with the conversation, she leans her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes, attempting to clear her head of all thoughts of the College of Winterhold. “I want to go home,” she softly whispers.

“We’ll be there by tomorrow evening”

“No,” Makela adjusts the pelts around herself. “To Cyrodiil.”

After another 30 minutes, they arrive in Dawnstar. Vorstag throws Ancano over his shoulders and follows Makela to the Dawnstar Barracks, where the Thalmor will be locked up for the night. Marcurio and Jenassa go to the Windpeak Inn to rent rooms for the night.

******

The Windpeak Inn is alive this evening; miners from both mines are crowded in, drinking mead and singing along with Karita, the bard in residence. Marcurio and Vorstag are sitting at the bar joking around with Thoring, the innkeeper. Jenassa is sitting in a dark corner sipping on a tankard of ale. Makela is sitting next to the fire pit in the center of the room holding a bottle of milk. “Hey everybody, we actually have a milk drinker in the room,” a local miner yells, pointing at her. _That line never gets old_. She smiles and turns her focus to Karita, who’s singing a song about driving the Empire out of Skyrim. To hide her discomfort, Makela takes a long swig of her milk.

“The leader of the Dark Brotherhood owns the most remarkable dagger.” Stunned by a strangely familiar voice, Makela turns to see a tall, handsome, dark-haired man dressed in all black, standing above her. “It would do you good to take ownership of it,” he adds sitting next to her. “The Blade of Woe. It's a beautiful dagger, make it yours; you will not be disappointed.”

Makela stares at the man ad if he's just grown horns, right there in front of her. “Have some wine?” The man tilts of bottle of spice wine in her direction.

“I don't partake in spirits,” Makela replies, holding up her bottle of milk.

“Pity.” The man comments with a gleam in his eyes. He slides a little closer to her, despite there being plenty of room on the other side of him. “You are quite an interesting woman.”

“Because I don’t drink wine?”

“Among other things,” he remarks with an alluring chuckle.

“Do I know you?” she asks huffily, scooting away from the man who’s now sitting a little too close for comfort.

“Do you need to for me to talk to you, Makela?”

“Um . . . for you to be so far into my personal space and address me by my name, I think I should know you.”

“You’re a very popular woman Makela Antonius.”

_How does he…_? Makela gasps at the man knowing her full name. “Who are you?”

“An admirer,” he remarks through a sultry grin.

Before Makela could question the man any further, she feels a woman sitting down on the opposite side of her; a miner from Iron-Breaker Mines. Makela turns to see her smiling. “How’s Alesan,” she asks about the young boy Makela had adopted a few months ago.

“I’ll see you in your dreams, my dear Makela,” the man whispers in Makela’s ear. A chill running down her spine, she turns immediately, but he’s gone; as if he’s disappeared. She quickly searches the room before turning back to the woman. _Who was he?_

“Alesan is fine,” Makela answers, smiling as if the man was never there. “He’s settled in and very happy.”

Beitild, the owner of Iron-Breaker Mines, walks up frowning. “You know, life has gotten a lot harder since you took Alesan away,” she complains staring at Makela. “Now we have to fetch our own meals,” Beitild continues. “We have to run our own errands and deliver messages.”

Makela gives an apologetic look. “Oh. I’m so sorry. Would you like me to send him back?”

Beitild's face lights up, relieved for the offer. “Would you do that?”

“No!” Makela huffs. “You’re a grown woman. Fetch your own damn meals.” She stares at the corner where Alesan used to sleep and groans, holding back anger bubbling within her. Adopting children was never part of her plan but seeing Alesan and his siblings sleeping on the floors of various inns or outside broke her heart. Of course, she could have taken them all to Honorhall Orphanage, but she felt compelled to take them in herself. She doubted she’d be a good mother. How could she? She spends too much time away from home. However, they’d be loved and have a home. Tired of feeling Beitild staring at her, she gets up and walks out the front door. Before stepping outside, she looks around for the mysterious stranger.

Twenty minutes pass when Marcurio begins scanning the room, looking for Makela, then he elbows Vorstag in the side. They both move toward Jenassa, who’s already checking the rented rooms, then confirms she’s not there. Seren, the blacksmith bursts in yelling she saw a member of the Dark Brotherhood running off with Makela bound and gagged over his shoulder. Her husband Rustleif, has chased after them to see what direction they were going.

“Shit!” Marcurio yells, running out the door. “How did this happen?” Knowing Makela would not get carried off without putting up a fight, he, Vorstag, and Jenassa do a brief scan of the area. Vorstag finds a partially empty milk bottle, on the porch of the inn lying in a puddle of spilled milk. Jenassa takes the bottle, smells it, then tastes a couple droplets of milk. “Sleeping draught,” she tells them.

“What?” Marcurio barks, fire in his eyes. “How the fuck . . .? Who would do this?”

“Makela never sat her bottle down,” Jenassa recalls. She turns to Thoring. “Whoever did this, had to have tainted more than one bottle. Perhaps when they saw us arrive in town. Was anyone else behind the bar?”

Thoring thinks for a moment. “No one but Bei . . .” Before he can finish his thought, Marcurio looks over the room and notices Beitild leaning against the bar holding a pouch of gold. He stomps over to her and snatches the pouch. “You bitch! If anything happens to her, I will kill you.” Stunned by the threat, Beitild denies any involvement. Marcurio sprints away when Rustleif runs in huffing. “Which way did they go?” Marcurio asks in a panic. Rustleif points up the path leading out of Dawnstar.

“We have to find her,” Jenassa blurts out. “They’ve put her to sleep; there’s no telling what could happen to her.”

Marcurio’s face pales in terror when he realizes what Jenassa means. “Shit,” he whispers, raking his fingers through his hair.

“We have to go!” Vorstag leaps into action. “I’m going to get the Thalmor out of the jail. If we leave him here, Skald will turn him over to the Stormcloaks.”

“We can’t let that happen,” Marcurio replies. “Makela wants to turn him over to the Legion.”

Vorstag heads toward the barracks. “Meet me at the top of the path,” he yells as he runs off.

Jenassa walks up and wraps her hand around Beitild’s throat. “You will pay for this,” she threatens, tightening her squeeze around the woman’s neck.

“They just want the boy…” Beitild squeals, tears welling up in her eyes.

“The boy? Alesan?” Jenassa inquires, loosening her grip.

“The boy from Windhelm.”

 “Aventus!” Jenassa turns to Marcurio. “We have to get to Windstad Manor.” She shoves Beitild to the ground and runs off with Marcurio. At the top of the path, it is decided they will take Ancano to the guardhouse in Morthal on the way to Windstad Manor.

******

Boisterous laughter from the kitchen can be heard as far as Jarl Igmund’s throne. Almost everyone in the keep is surprised when they realized the owner of that laughter. Ondolemar sits at a small table, drinking wine and chatting with Anton. Their conversation topics vary from gossip around Markarth to different types of Nord and Altmer cuisine. Occasionally, the topics turn to recent dragon attacks around the Reach and the bad blood between Markarth and the Forsworn. Eventually, the subject turns to Makela. Ondolemar is fascinated by Anton’s stories about the pretty Redguard Imperial that hasn’t left his mind since she left Markarth nearly a week and a half ago.

In the short time since Makela has been away, Ondolemar had become friendlier . . . less rude. He’s nicer to the staff in the keep, he greets almost everyone in the morning and wishes them goodnight in the evening. Aside from his daily chats with Anton, he tries to have regular conversations with Jarl Igmund and Faleen; probably to stay close to those who care for Makela. He has also become friendly with Gunner. Aria and Alaric both believe that budding relationship is to keep an eye on potential competition.

Ondolemar is still the same rigid Altmer he's always been; however, people have noticed he was more relaxed and approachable. No one expects to find him at the Silver-Blood in sharing a tankard of mead with the local miners. But who knows? Makela has a strange effect on people.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a love/hate relationship with the Dark Brotherhood. The hate part is a little obvious in the next two chapters. Astrid is an awesome character, but she kidnaps the Dragonborn and tries to force them to join. She could’ve just asked.

_An Imperial Legion soldier helps her from the wagon. She looks around at the Stormcloak prisoners and wonders how she ended up with them. After Lokir, the Nord from Rorikstead is killed, she steps up before a Nord Imperial soldier with kind eyes. “What’s your name prisoner?” He politely asks. She takes and moment or two to think. “If you ever find yourself in trouble, use the name Leki,” she hears a man’s voice in the back of her mind. “I don’t know, Leki, maybe?” She replies to the soldier, questioning herself._

_“Maybe?” The soldier asks, confused why she wouldn’t know her own name. She lifts her bound hands to the left side of her face and gestures toward a wound near her temple. “Apologies,” the soldier replies and begins to look at his list._

_“What’s yours?” Leki asks, as if she isn't a prisoner facing her doom._

_“What?” the soldier looks up from his list, stunned by the kind, cheerful eyes staring at him._

_“Your name. What’s your name?_

_“Um, Hadvar,” the flustered soldier answers. “My name is Hadvar.”_

_“It’s a pleasure to meet you Hadvar.” Leki replies, giving him a gentle smile._

_Taken aback, Hadvar goes back to his list. He looks back at Leki. “I don’t see you on the list. “Why are you here?”_

_“I don’t know. I woke up on a wagon bound with these Stormcloaks I’ve never seen before.”_

_Leki’s calm demeanor throws Hadvar off. One would think she’d have more fear like Lokir, but she seems content; as if she’s already accepted the gravity of her situation. He stares at her, then back at his list. He turns to his captain to advise her that “Leki” is not on the list. His superior is unconcerned and tells him that Leki will be executed anyway. Hadvar turns back to Leki; a torn and apologetic look in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”_

_“No worries.” Leki looks over Hadvar shoulders at the captain. “She and I will cross paths again. I hope she will be prepared.”_

_Although, he’s shocked by her comment, Hadvar admires the assured way Leki is handling herself. “We will send your remains to Hammerfell.”_

_“Why?” Leki perks up with curiosity. “Am I not allowed to be buried here, in Skyrim?”_

_“Yes. No. . . . I mean,” Hadvar pauses completely lost for words. “What of your family?”_

_“What of them?” She asks. “I’m not even sure of my name. How can we be certain I have a family? Or if they are in Hammerfell.”_

_“I guess you have a point,” Hadvar solemnly agrees._

_“I do,” Leki smiles confidently at him. “Thank you.”_

_After the first Stormcloak is executed, Leki is called to the block. She notices a familiar looking Imperial officer gloating to Ulfric Stormcloak about finally capturing him. She stares at him briefly then steps forward. Dizzy from the head wound, she stumbles a bit. Hadvar rushes to her aid. “Are you alright?”_

_Leki smiles at Hadvar. “Does it matter at this point?”_

_“I... I guess not.”_

_“Divines be with you, Hadvar.” Leki leans around him and stares pointedly at the captain. “Until next time, my friend. Stay practiced with your sword skills.” Leki turns and proceeds to the block and stares at the head lying in the basket, unmoved, then settles herself on the block. Before the executioner can swing his axe, the town thunders as a fierce black dragon crashes on the building behind him._

“Wake up, Makela?” A deep voice whispers.

“No,” she mumbles. Groggily blinking her eyes open, she lets out a low groan and places her hand over her head. “Ow!” Eyes completely open, she takes in her surroundings; a one room shack that reeks of mold and decayed wood. “Ugh! Where am I?” Makela sits up, adjusting herself on a creaking old bed. She holds her breath, trying to hold back the bile threatening to rise from her now empty stomach.

“Sleep well?” A voice asks from above. Makela turns to see a woman dressed in Dark Brotherhood armor, sitting on top of a bookcase. 

“Shit!” Makela growls, shaking her head. _Oh, come on._

“I’m Astrid; the leader of the Dark Brotherhood.”

“Yeah. Don’t care. What do you want?” Makela looks down at her sides noticing her swords are missing. _Um... where are my swords?_

“Grelod the Kind.” Astrid replies.

“What about her?” Makela asks, rolling her eyes making obvious her lack of interest in this conversation. “Those swords are custom made; a gift from my grandfather.”

“The boy . . . Aventus, performed the Black Sacrament. You took our kill.”

Of course, this had something to do with Aventus and the Black Sacrament. Makela was too late when she’d arrived at Aventus’ house; he had already completed the ritual. He was desperate, Grelod was abusive and probably deserved to die. No, she did; but Makela knew one day Aventus would feel guilty for having the woman killed. Letting him live with that guilt was not an option. Instead of killing the Grelod, Makela gave the old bitty a satchel of gold and told her to leave Skyrim and never return. By now she should be somewhere in Cyrodiil or hopefully further away. Wherever she is, Aventus is safe from her abuse. He was hesitant to go back to Honorhall and Makela had no intention of letting him to live alone in Windhelm. So, she adopted him, and he lives happily with her other children.

Makela sighs and checks her braid, feeling that it's still intact. “She’s not dead. Go ahead and kill her, if you must.” Makela stands and searches around the bed. “Three ebony swords; two replicas of Akaviri katanas and a replica of a Yokudan scimitar.”

 “We will. However, you’re the target, now,” Astrid purrs. “Old Grelod has performed the Black Sacrament and requested your death.”

“Hmm, I guess I should have killed her, after all,” Makela casually remarks, checking in a nearby corner for her swords.

“Perhaps,” Astrid replies. “However, the chance may come. I don’t wish to kill you. I’m here to recruit you.”

“No thank you,” Makela sighs. “I’m not interested.”

“I never said you had a choice,” Astrid responds venomously. Makela slowly turns to her. “We have been watching you,” Astrid continues. “You are a very skilled warrior.”

 _Skilled warrior? What is she talking about?_ Anyone that knew Makela knew she was far from being a warrior, much less a “very skilled” one. Her swordsmanship was above average, at best. She can fight her way out of a skirmish and she’s very talented with a dagger; but she wouldn’t call herself warrior.

Warriors are loud, brutish, and forceful. They want the enemy to know they’re coming; to tremble in fear and anticipation. Plus, they wear awful clunky heavy armor. Makela prefers that her enemies not know she’s around. She likes to lurk in the shadows and strike when least expected. That or take them out with an ice spike from a distance. That does sound like a skill set the Dark Brotherhood would appreciate. However, Makela has never been interested in joining the group of assassins.

“Your point?” Makela inquires, frustrated and already tired of the situation. She flops back on the bed. “Where are my damn swords?”

“We could use a person with your particular . . . talent.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” Makela twinkles a smile at Astrid. “But I don’t kill for hire.”

“You could change your mind.”

“I could,” Makela pauses. But I won’t.”

Astrid lets out a sultry laugh. “I like you. You’ll make a fine addition to our cause.”

“Cause?” Makela stands, still looking at Astrid. “Look, I appreciate your fondness for my . . . talents. However, I have no desire to join the Dark Brotherhood.” She walks to the door, never taking her eye off her persistent recruiter. “So, I’ll be on my way. Thank you for the nap. I’d appreciate it if you’d return my swords.” She attempts to open the door and realizes it’s locked from the outside. _SHIT!_

“How unfortunate,” Astrid purrs, responding to Makela’s inability to leave. “Here’s the thing. You’re not leaving until you’re a member of my humble group. And you cannot join without passing the initiation.”

“Initiation?”

“Yes.” Astrid points to the area behind Makela. “See these lovely people?” three people, bound and wearing execution hoods, are on the floor. “Kill them. Kill one of them. Kill them all. I don’t care. Just let me see your skills in the art of murder.”

Makela stares at the door and takes in the gravity of her situation. Locked in a room with no way out. Forced to do something against her will. Suddenly, everything goes black. The faces of five Imperial soldiers, one woman and four men, come into her vision. She slowly backs away from the door in a trance. _“No! No, no, no!”_ She then bumps into the bed; the hard contact pulls her out of the trance. She steadies herself and looks at the hostages, then Astrid. “I will not kill them,” she firmly states.

“You are quite the honorable warrior,” Astrid cackles.

Makela groans, becoming more annoyed. “I am no more honorable than anyone else,” She eyes Astrid with a sly grin. “Well, maybe more than you.” She calmly walks back to the door. “Look, open the door. I will not kill anyone for you or any other member of the Dark Brotherhood . . . here, Cyrodiil, or anywhere else. Sweet Mara! Why can’t you people take no for an answer?”

Astrid gives hers a puzzled look before slinking down the bookcase. “Very well.” She looks Makela up and down. Admiring her black outfit. “Why don’t you just join us? You’re already dressed like us.”

Makela looks down at her black form-fitting armor, equipped with buckles and secret compartments, which does resemble Astrid’s shroud in some ways. She looks at Astrid and shrugs. “I don’t see the similarities.”

Astrid walks to the hostages. “Part of me figured your initiation would be challenging.” She takes her dagger and traces it across the neck of the Khajiit hostage. Makela sighs and sits on the floor in front of the door. She turns her full attention onto Astrid. Makela’s eyes momentarily grow dark, soulless, as if she’s possessed by another being. “Look, you don’t know me. You have no idea of what I’m capable of. Let me go, while I’m still feeling friendly.” She pierces Astrid with a deadly glare that causes the Dark Brotherhood leader to tremble. Astrid quickly recovers and leers at Makela.

 “We have the boy,” Astrid says with a beaming smile.

“What?” Makela jumps to her feet with a sense of urgency.

“Aventus. We have him. Actually, we have all of the children.”

Makela make a move toward Astrid. “Ah, ah.” Astrid points the dagger at the Khajiit’s throat. “You will join us, or we will take Aventus in your place and kill the other children.”

Before Makela can attack, Astrid calls out to Nazir, a Redguard Dark Brotherhood member. He kicks in the door, dressed in full Alik’r warrior garb, and swoops her over his shoulder. The three hostages are dragged away by other Dark Brotherhood members. Outside the shack, Makela notices they are not far from Windstad Manor, where the children are staying. “Fuck!” She yells beginning to struggle.

Astrid bursts into sadistic laughter. “Will you take me seriously, now?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

The walk to Windstad Manor was relatively quiet. To Astrid’s surprise, Makela did not put up a fight. Rather than waste energy kicking and flailing around, she relaxed and pretended to enjoy the ride. She periodically asked about her swords and mocked Nazir whenever he lost his footing on the uneven ground. A few times she offered to walk, but Nazir refused to let her down. That was fine with her. If the big brute felt the need to carry, who was she to deny him the numbness building in his shoulder?

Just as they approach Windstad Manor, Nazir lets Makela down and shoves her forward. Pretending to stumble a bit, she slyly surveys the property looking for anything out of the ordinary. She immediately notices the carriage, where Engar, the carriage driver, Sonir, the bard, and, the children’s new tutor, Greta, are tied in the back. Valdimar, the steward is lying on the ground next to the carriage.

_Valdimar? They must have snuck up on him from behind._

A piercing whistle comes from behind Makela. She realizes it’s a whistle signal from Astrid. Three other members of the Dark Brotherhood walk out of her house. Each have daggers pointed at the necks of Blaise, Sofie, and Lucia. _A bit of overkill. They’ll have to pay for that_.

A tall barefoot Nord with white hair walks up with Aventus squirming under his arm, trying to get away. “Ma!” Aventus yells. “I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .

“Shh!” Makela hushes Aventus to calm him down. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Are you serious?” Astrid laughs out loud. “Unless you change your mind and join us, there is plenty to worry about”.

Ignoring Astrid, Makela inspects the area again. _Where is Alesan?_ She looks around and spots him peeking over the top of the roof. He’s lying prone, holding up three small daggers, so only Makela would notice. She nods slightly toward the men holding Blaise, Sofie and Lucia, letting him know where to throw his daggers. Then she looks at Aventus and gives him a gentle smile. “I have not changed my mind,” Makela affirms, turning to Astrid. “I do not wish to join you and your companions. Please release the children and leave.” She calmly requests.

Astrid laughs again. “You can’t possibly be serious,” she responds in a menacing tone. “You will join us, or we will kill you and the three children, then take Aventus with us.”

“Why are people so difficult?” Makela mutters to herself. She’s always hated people who couldn’t take no for an answer. Keeping her cool, Makela turns back to the three children, then eyes the steps going to the upper porch, never turning her head. She looks at Aventus then directs him to the same steps with her eyes. Only the children notice the frost spell building in Makela’s left hand and the soul capture spell building in her right.

The children knew when the moment came, they would have to make a run for it. They have been trained for moments like this. Poor Lucia was fighting to hold back her excitement. Finally, they’d get to use one of Makela’s signals, not just for training purposes. Makela would have to have a chat with her later about keeping a straight face. Luckily no one was paying any attention to the young girl.

Makela hoped she’d never have to fight in front of the children but being the Dragonborn and living in Skyrim during a civil war, she knew there would be a possibility. Not only was there a chance of them witnessing a fight, but there was a strong possibility they would have to fight to save themselves. They trained regularly with Valdimar. He taught them how to improve their sword and dagger skills, magicka, hand-to-hand combat, and strategy. Everything, they’d need to know to defend themselves and to fight alongside Makela or anyone else, if necessary. Today, if everything worked out, the children wouldn’t need to put their fighting skills to use. _Fingers crossed, Makela._

Glancing at Alesan, she clears her throat and nods. Instantly, three daggers fly from the roof, hitting the Dark Brotherhood member beneath their left shoulder blades. When the men react to the sudden pain, Blaise, Sofie, and Lucia take off for the upper porch. At the same time. Makela casts soul capture spells on the men. She then shoots an ice spike, the size of a dagger at the Nord holding Aventus. He drops the child and falls back, grabbing at the spike embedded just above his heart. When Aventus runs to the house, Makela casts a soul capture spell on the Nord. After seeing Alesan slide down the roof, landing on the porch, Makela raises a tall wall of ice between the house and her Dark Brotherhood opponents.

“You’re a mage!?” Astrid screams.

“Did you not know?” Makela asks while casting soul capture spells at the remaining Dark Brotherhood members. “I thought you were watching me. I guess you missed something.”

“We’ve never seen you use magicka.”

“Well, today’s your lucky day.” Makela replies, taking a quick look at the people around her. An otherworldly grin spreads across her face. For Makela, the feeling of magicka coursing through her body is like no other. The sensation was indescribable, but she loved it. It was well beyond the satisfaction of a good meal or an excellent book. The intense power tingling throughout her being, setting all her senses on edge, was even better than a great night of passionate sex. Was it? Makela wouldn’t know, it had been ages since she’d been intimate with anyone _. I wonder what Ondolemar is doing._ Makela shook head as her thoughts briefly wandered. Makela needed to make this quick and clean. The last thing she wanted was for the children to worry _._ There’ll be other opportunities to use a magicka at full capacity.

“I make great effort to spare those that attack me. But you . . .” A menacing anger changes her voice. “. . . you attacked my children. An exception will be made.” She stares down Astrid, then shoots a thin ice spike into her Achilles tendon. Unable to walk, Astrid falls to the ground. “I love having a captive audience,” Makela chuckles to the injured Dark Brotherhood leader.

Makela turns to the three men who held her children at knife point. After a wink and smile, she conjures Dremora Valkynaz who makes quick work of them. Blinding blueish purple lights, their souls, fly from their bodies, across the yard into three separate black soul gems. Various soul gems are placed like decorative stones throughout the yard area of Windstad Manor as well as the other two homesteads. Although, she hoped she’d never had a use for them, Makela smiles smugly to herself for coming up with this ingenious idea. No one wants to come home to a bunch undead walking around.

Nazir unsheathes two scimitars and runs toward Makela.

“Fus . . . Roh . . . Dah!” Makela's Unrelenting Force shout throws Nazir nearly twenty feet into a tree. The crack of his arm is loud, even from that distance.

“No!” Astrid screams. “You’re . . . you’re the Dragonborn?”

“Wait! You didn’t know that, either?” Makela snickers. “We have been watching you. You are a very skilled warrior.” she says mimicking Astrid’s voice. “Are you sure you were watching the right person?” Makela looks at Astrid, curiosity burning in her eyes. “So, how long were you watching me? No…never mind. It doesn't matter.” Her curiosity vanished as quickly as it appeared.

From the distance, Makela sees Nazir stand. Before he can make a move, she conjures a bound bow and shoots him in the stomach, then Dremora Valkynaz finishes him. Sending another purple light flying to a black soul gem buried near the stables.

Finally, the white-haired Nord stands up and transforms into a werewolf. “Oh my,” Makela feigns fear and giggles. She quickly shoots four arrows into his chest and one in each ankle; sending the beast to his knees.

“Arnborn!” Astrid yells.

“Oh! Is this your pup?” Makela asks sarcastically, turning to Astrid, giving her the same sadistic cackle, she’d been given earlier. She turns back to Arnborn just as Dremora Valkynaz drives his sword through his heart. “Say hello to Hircine, for me,” she chuckles as Arnborn takes his last breath.

 “You bitch!” Astrid screams, as she watches the soul leave Arnborn’s lifeless body and travel into a black soul gem buried at Makela’s feet.

“No! You bitch!” Makela shrieks. “I told you I wanted no parts of your group. You could have walked away and left me alone, but you chose to threaten my children instead. No one gets away with trying to hurt my family. She looks around at the Dark Brotherhood members, dead on the ground. “Phew! Dremora Valkynaz didn’t lop anyone's head off,” she sighs to herself relieved. She snaps her fingers, shattering the ice wall, and sending Dremora Valkynaz back to Oblivion, before setting her cold stare on Astrid. “Where are my swords?” She snarls through gritted teeth, after taking a long drawn out breath.

“Ma!” Makela turns around as she notices Alesan calling out to her. He’s holding up her Akaviri swords, Blaise has the scimitar.  Behind them the other children have freed the driver, bard, and tutor and healed Valdimar. “Well, that’s fortunate,” she winks at Astrid with a wide smile, looking like she’s hasn’t just killed anyone.

A short time later, Valdimar and Engar build a fire behind the house and burn the lifeless bodies. Sonir collects the filled black soul gems and places them in Makela’s knapsack. Knowing Makela is undecided on how to deal with Astrid, she places an empty black soul gem on the step near the front door of the house. Afterwards, Valdimar escorts the three Dark Brotherhood hostages to the carriage. “I will take you to Morthal and you will find your way home from there,” he advises still blindfolded prisoners. After he assists the last hostage onto the carriage his voice grows cold. “You know nothing of today’s events,” he warns. “Should I find out any of you have spoken a word about it, you will meet the same fate.”

******

By dusk, the fire has burned out, and the Dark Brotherhood weapons have been placed by the forge to be melted down. Astrid lies still on the ground, very much alive and in a great deal of pain. Sitting on the roof of the house with her five children, Makela stares at the darkening orange and blue sky. Aventus leans onto her, fearing he was the cause of the situation that played out a few hours ago. Makela comforts him and lets him know he was not at fault. While reassuring Aventus, she apologizes to the children for not being there when the Dark Brotherhood arrived and for having to kill them. However, judging from their excitement, the children may not be all that traumatized.

While Makela is praising the children’s bravery and Alesan’s dagger throwing skills, Marcurio, Vorstag, and Jenassa arrive. Hopping out of the carriage, Marcurio looks down at the injured Astrid then up at the roof. “Can you explain this?” He shouts up at Makela.

“She attacked me first,” Makela replies defensively.

“Seriously?” Marcurio huffs.

“Yes, seriously.” Makela and the children slide down the roof to the side porch. After sending them in the house to pack some clothes, she walks over to her three companions. Before explaining what happened, she punches Marcurio in the shoulder. “What took you so long?”

“Ow!” Marcurio yelps, rolling his eyes. “Skald.”

“He didn’t want to release Ancano.” Vorstag jumps into to the conversation. “Apparently he was making plans to turn him over to the Stormcloaks. I had to fight off a few guards and Stormcloaks, before breaking this ungrateful ass out of the cell.”

A wide awake Ancano tries to yell at Vorstag through a gag.

Makela turns to greet the crotchety Thalmor. “Oh! Good evening.”

“Never mind him,” Marcurio intervenes. “What happened here?

As expected Makela recounts the events of the day, as if she was describing a family outing or a night out with friends. Unless there were long term consequences, Makela rarely dwelled on fights and confrontations. The danger had passed and the enemy had been dealt with; mentally Makela had moved on. That’s the way things had to be for her. She has too much going on, she couldn’t allow herself to get stuck in a rut.

“What are you going to do about her?” Marcurio asks, expecting something ridiculous to come out of Makela’s mouth.

“I don’t know,” Makela shrugs, perfectly meeting her cousin’s expectations.

“Was she alone?” Vorstag chimes in.

“No.”

“What happened?”

“She . . . she killed them all,” Astrid moans. “Even my sweet Arnborn.”

“No, I didn’t,” Makela interrupts. “Dremora Valkynaz did.”

“You do realize anyone killed by your dremora is your kill,” an exasperated Marcurio explains.

Makela contemplates his comment. “Yeah . . . no. I disagree.” she remarks, then continues to explain what happened.

“What are you going to do about her?” Marcurio asks again.

“I don’t know,” Makela admits, again showing she’s already done with the situation. “I’m tired. Let’s just get the children and go to Solitude. I can’t rest here.”

“Okay,” Marcurio replies. “We’ll leave tonight.”

“Great! That was my plan.”

“What of me?” Astrid growls in anger. “Do you plan to just leave me here?”

“I have no plans for you at all,” Makela coolly responds. “Can you walk?” Makela smirks at her injured leg. “It's getting dark. If you go now, you'll probably make it to Morthal before the wolves come out.”

Marcurio elbows Makela in the side and gives her a scolding look of disapproval. “You can't let her leave.”

“Fine,” Makela sighs. “Leave her here. I'll have Valdimar bring her a blanket.”

Stunned by her former hostage's disregard for her wellbeing, Astrid pounds her fist on the ground. “If I survive this, I will perform the black sacrament myself and have you killed.”

“Oh!” Makela responds nonchalantly. “I can’t have that,” She conjures Dremora Valkynaz, who immediately stabs Astrid through the heart. One last purple light flows into the black soul gem on the front step. “That reminds me,” Makela sends the dremora back to Oblivion. “Grelod has to be dealt with, before she sends more assassins after me.”

“Grelod set this in motion?” Marcurio asks.

“Yes! Well, so she said.” Makela points at Astrid's lifeless body before grabbing the soul gem and stuffing it in her pack. “Although, I think they were coming after me regardless. Another attempt to recruit me.”

Marcurio sighs at her last comment. Before walking away, Makela looks down at Astrid's lifeless body and notices a beautifully crafted dagger lying next to her. “The Blade of Woe,” Marcurio remarks staring at the dagger.

“You've heard of this blade?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. I guess the strange man at the inn was right,” she states, before taking the dagger. “One woman's loss, is another woman's . . . I don't know. Gain? I guess it's my gain,” Makela chuckles. Exhaustion from the day's events finally catching up with her, she walks to the back of the carriage. “I’m cold. Let me know when we get to Solitude,” she requests, she climbs into the back of the carriage and lies down, pulling a fur over her head.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It sucks that there are no options to adopt Aventus, and all four of the children that are living on their own. Don’t get me wrong, my Dragonborn will never win parent of the year (neither will Makela), but at least the children would have a home.


	5. Chapter 5

_Leki is frozen in place as the majestic black dragon glares down at her with a sense of familiarity and resentment. She stares back, entranced, she can feel the bloodlust and hatred emanating from it. Scared, but intrigued, she feels a connection to the beast. Not something friendly; she can feel they are meant to be enemies, but they are somehow bonded to one another._

_“RUN!” A voice yells out to her. She turns to her right to see that chatty Stormcloak from the carriage, running and urging her to go. She looks back at the dragon to see it rearing up to blow a gust of fire in her direction. Still running, the Stormcloak hooks an arm around her waist and carries her to a safe building. Once safely inside, she looks around at the other Stormcloaks and sees Ulfric Stormcloak standing among them. Her eyes widen as he gives her a knowing smile._

_Just as Leki steps back, suspecting this is not the group she needs to be with, a hand grabs her wrist. She turns expecting to see the talkative Stormcloak, but she sees nothing but darkness; an empty void. Stunned, she quickly tries to snatch her wrist from the void, but the grip tightens._

“Don’t keep me waiting, Makela,” the deep voices whispers.

Makela wakes with a start, attempting to quickly pull herself upright, to escape her dream; but she can't move. Her right arm is heavy, weighed down as if the grip from her dream is still holding onto her. Fearful of her strange circumstance, she reminds herself to remain calm. She felt there was no need to alert the others in the carriage. After a few sharp tugs she manages to pull free from the invisible weight. Looking around her environment, she realizes they’re not far from the Solitude stables. _I need to get this sleeping draught out of my system._

Ancano groans through his gag and glares at her. “You don’t look like you enjoyed the ride,” Makela remarks with s sly smile. She starts rubbing her numb arm, hoping to regain some circulation. He continues to grumble at her. “I'm sorry, I don't speak gag.” she chuckles. Sitting up, she slides the cotton rag from his mouth, resting it around his neck. “What can I do for you, sir?” She asks with a polite grin.

“What do you plan to do with me?”

“Nothing. Once we leave you at Castle Dour, you are out of our hands,” Makela pauses, thinking briefly. “Knowing General Tullius, you'll probably be turned over to the Thalmor and back to your old tricks, in no time.”

She pulls the gag back over is mouth. The deadly glare she gives Ancano gives him pause. “Heed my advice; stay away from Winterhold and the college. And do not attempt to come after me and mine. Should we ever do battle again, I won't be as merciful.” She settles back in her seat, never breaking eye contact with him.

The breeze from the Karth River is chilly, when Marcurio and Jenassa stop both carriages at the Solitude stables. While they get the horses settled and fed, Makela and the children start unloading their packs. Makela immediately notices Blaise apprehensively looking over at Katla’s farm. After recent events, the last thing he needed was to see the people who mistreated him before Makela adopted him. She takes his hand starts walking down the hill toward the Solitude side entrance.

Since taking in the children, Makela has been fully aware of their desires to stay away from the towns in which they lived. They each hold some form of animosity toward the people they left behind, all with valid reasons. Looking back, Makela would have never believed that she of all people would adopt any children, let alone five. Kids and family are distractions and obstacles. The incident earlier with the Dark Brotherhood was reason enough to never have considered adopting them. However, when she thinks about the situations in which she found them and how they’ve changed her life, she can’t imagine never having them around. Even though she doesn’t spend nearly as much time with them as she wants and should, she knows she made the right choice for them and herself.

The other children follow Makela and Blaise, with Vorstag and Ancano trailing a few steps behind them. As they walk, Alesan and Lucia lead the children in a chorus of tavern songs. Makela joined in while thinking she needs to teach them some child friendly songs.

Reaching the top of the steps from the side entrance, Makela pushes through the gate, into the quiet, empty Solitude marketplace. Taking in a breath, Makela looks around, noticing Evette San walking with a Solitude guard toward her house. She and the children greet the pair and watch as they continue their walk. After the guard has passed, Vorstag steps out with Ancano. “I’m going to head to Castle Dour before anymore guards show up. I’m not in the mood to answer any questions.” Makela nods, deciding to stay with the children to wait for Marcurio and Jenassa. “Go home, Makela,” Vorstag orders walking away.

“But I’m hungry,” she complains, looking toward The Winking Skeever.

“I’ll get you something when I’m done.”

“Fine,” Makela pouts. “Make sure you get something for Ancano. I'm sure food service is long over in the dungeon. Ancano is stunned by her kind gesture. Makela smiles at him then bids him goodnight. Afterwards, she challenges the children to a race then runs off toward Proudspire Manor.

******

Marcurio enters the Castle Dour Dungeon, just as an Imperial soldier closes the cell door behind Ancano. Stretched out on a bench, Vorstag opens one eye when he hears Marcurio’s footsteps. “We’re all set?” Marcurio asks, looking in the cell in the cell to see the Thalmor’s angry scowl. Vorstag nods in affirmation, then stands and stretches. Both men turn to the sound of the dungeon door closing and the click-clacking of Imperial armor boots descending the steps. General Tullius enters, with Legate Rikke and Jenassa trailing behind him. Before acknowledging Marcurio and Vorstag, he notices Ancano sitting in a nearby cell. “What in Oblivion?” He rushes to the cell door then looks back at the two men. “What have you done?”

“Nothing,” Marcurio replies curtly. “We fought, he lost; we’re turning him over to you.”

“What?”

“That’s pretty much what happened,” Vorstag chimes in.

General Tullius turns to Jenassa, who shrugs and nods in agreement. Tullius sighs and rakes his hand through his hair. “Tell me what happened, now or the three of you will spending the night in adjoining cells with this Thalmor.”

Marcurio sighs and explains the events and disaster at the College of Winterhold. Surprised but not as much as he should be, Tullius considers Marcurio’s story shaking his head. After a few seconds he looks around the room. “You’re missing someone. Where is she?”

“Resting,” Vorstag answers.

General Tullius chuckles and mocks Vorstag. “Resting. Really? Your fearless leader should be here, reporting this tale herself.”

“You know she has no intention of coming here,” Marcurio replies. “Until she finds out how she ended up in that carriage to Helgen, she will not come here.”

General Tullius runs his temple and takes a deep breath. “You each had your assignments; none of which included traipsing around Skyrim like some random adventurers.”

“There was a slight change when Makela was nearly executed; and now Makela is the Dragonborn. We adapted to our new situation.” Jenassa calmly adds.

“I understand some things have changed.  And while I appreciate her need to investigate her . . . situation,” General Tullius remarks. “That has nothing to do with me or her duties to the Empire.”

Overcome with anger, Marcurio rushes toward Tullius. Vorstag pulls him back before he can do any harm. “You were there. She saw you and you didn’t even notice her,” Marcurio yells while Vorstag continues to hold him back.

“Stay yourself, Legate Antonius,” General Tullius warns. “Do not let emotions get in the way of duties.” He steps back and looks at Marcurio thoughtfully. “I will overlook this incident…this time. But do not try my patience. Go to The Winking Skeever, have a drink and calm yourself.” Tullius walks past them and up the steps. “Tell the other Legate Antonius I expect a written report on this whole Winterhold incident, by tomorrow evening.” He pauses and looks over his shoulder. “Has she regained all of her memories, yet?”

‘Most. But she doesn't recall anything that lead up to her ending up in Helgen,” Vorstag dryly replies.

General Tullius sighs then exits the dungeon with Legate Rikke in tow.

Vorstag pats Marcurio on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go get that drink and some food for Makela.”

“I hate that bastard,” Marcurio remarks.

“We all do,” Jenassa replies as the walk out the dungeon.

Once he's alone, Ancano stands at his cell door contemplating what he just heard. “The Dragonborn is a legate in the Imperial Legion,” he whispers to himself. “This information may prove useful in the future.”


	6. Chapter 6

 

“What happened to your face?” Ondolemar asked, reaching to touch his colleague’s face.

Understone Keep was as quiet as the Temple of Divines; all eyes on Ondolemar and his unexpected visitors. Markarth guards and servants stared at the Thalmor agents that surprised Ondolemar with an unwelcome visit. Ancarion, and Estormo were that last people he expected to show up in Markarth of all places. Colleagues and friends for years; Ondolemar enjoyed their company, but now was not the time and Markarth was not the place.

Over the past few weeks, Ondolemar had been establishing something akin to a camaraderie with a few people in town. Yes, he still believed they were still beneath him, but he enjoyed not feeling like an outsider. Perhaps having companionable relationships with these yokels would impress Makel-- _Hold on!_ He didn’t care about impressing Makela. Did he? No of course not. Good relations with the people in town would be good for him and eventually good for the Thalmor. At least, that’s what he’s been telling himself.

Estormo, the black-eyed Thalmor hissed and stepped back; the mere thought of being touched was painful.

“You don’t want to know,” Ancarion chuckles.

“Be quiet!” Estormo yelps. “I’ve no reason to feel ashamed.”

Ondolemar shrugs not really caring to know what happened. Knowing Estormo, he was probably injured during one of his perverse sexcapades. At the moment, he was too busy and too sober to sit through an unbridled debauchery. Focused on finding out why his friends are there and getting them out as soon as possible. “What brings you two here?” He asks, opening the door the to keep and leading them out. He nods a greeting to the guards as he leads his fellow Thalmor down the steps away from Understone Keep. Aria and Alaric quietly follow behind hoping Estormo and Ancarion will leave before lunch ends. They could smell fresh baked apple pie from their quarters. The last thing they wanted was to miss out on one of Anton’s specialties because of some unwanted visitors.

“We came for a visit.” Ancarion replies.

“Really?” Ondolemar eyes him skeptically. In all the time he’s been in Markarth, no Thalmor has ever come to visit him. They meet once a month at the Thalmor Embassy and that’s about it. On top of that, Ancarion was recently sent to Solstheim in search of stalhrim. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Solstheim?” He asks Ancarion.

“Ha!” Estormo churlishly interrupts. “He let some adventurer talk him out of his Stalhrim map.”

Stunned, Ondolemar stares at his other friend in disbelief.

“She didn’t talk me out of the map,” Ancarion defends himself. “We had a nice chat and she sold me some Stalhrim gear. Therefore, I no longer had a use for the map,” he shrugs in response. “What?” He yells, feeling Ondolemar’s glare.

“You no longer needed the map? You had no use for a fresh supply of Stalhrim?”

“Shut up! She had a way with words.” Ancarion reddens with embarrassment. “I was devoured by her silver tongue. And those beguiling eyes. You would have fallen into her trap as well.”

“Her what?” Ondolemar asks.

“Anyway, I have a new map. When I’m done here, I’ll be on my way back to Solstheim.”

“Because there’s no way Miss Beguiling Eyes hasn’t depleted the mine by now,” Ondolemar sneers.

“Shut up, you!” Ancarion barks.

Noting Markarth isn’t on the way to Solstheim, he again asks why they’re there. Ondolemar resumes walking waiting for a response. He looks back to see Estormo and Ancarion eyeing each other, trying get the other to answer him.

“What?” Ondolemar’s curiosity raised up. “What’s going on?”

“Elenwen asked us to make sure you were coming to her little get-together,” Ancarion admits.

“Are you serious?” Ondolemar suppresses his need to yell. “She sent you here to ask if I’ll attend her party? Ridiculous!” He utters through gritted teeth.

“You know how she is,” Ancarion replies. “I think she misses you.” All five Altmer frown at the thought. “Anyway, when she didn’t receive your RSVP, she panicked.”

Ondolemar shakes his head in disbelief. “I sent a courier to relay my RVSP two days ago.”

“Oh!” a dumbfounded Estormo responds. “I guess we didn’t need to come here after all.”

“But I’m not going,” Ondolemar adds.

“What!” Estormo yelps in despair. “You have to go. You can’t leave me alone with Elenwen.”

“Other people will be there.”

“Yes! But you are my buffer when it comes to Elenwen. She likes you.”

Ondolemar shudders at the thought of being liked by Elenwen. “Exactly why I’m not going.”

“Oh, come on, Ondolemar, you have to be there.” Estormo groans. “I cannot possibly endure her alone. When she’s not putting on airs, she’ll be berating me about my eye. Telling me ‘showing up to a social event with a bruise is beneath our kind.’” Mocking the ambassador, he looks down on them as she would.

“Then don’t go.”

Estormo huffs, appalled Ondolemar would speak such nonsense. “Are you insane? I have to go.”

Ondolemar stops at the city gate, staring at Estormo in confusion. The bruised Thalmor throws his hands up in disbelief, amazed that he could be friends with such a naive person. “Human nobles, Ondolemar. Human nobles will be there.” Estormo shakes his head in disappointment. “After a few goblets of wine, some human nobles are more sexually uninhibited than the highest paid talent at the best brothels in Anvil.”

Regretting he asked, Ondolemar sighs and opens the gate and leads his colleagues out of the city. “You’re going to the party to find a sexual conquest?”

“Don’t we all?”

“No!’ The other four replied in unison.

“Pity. You’re missing out.” Estormo sulked. “Regardless, you must come to the party with me.”

“Fine.” Ondolemar sighed, resigned to the fact that Estormo would beg until he did. Better to get it over with now. “Make sure your face is healed or be prepared to deal with Elenwen.”

“She already knows.”

Curiosity suddenly peaked, Ondolemar stares at Estormo waiting for an explanation.

‘If you must know, I was hit in the face,” Estormo answered, slightly amused.

“Well, that’s obvious. How? Why?”

Estormo pauses facing Ondolemar. “It was at Labyrinthian.”

Knowing Makela was heading there a few weeks ago, Aria and Alaric give each other a concerned look.

“Ancano sent me there to retrieve some staff,” Estormo continues. “Yes, the Staff of Magnus.”

Like his guards, Ondolemar is concerned of where this story was leading, but he stands quietly, waiting for his friend to continue is story.

“As I was going in, I bumped into the this lovely Redguard that happened to be holding the staff. Serendipity,” Estormo giggles to himself.

“Lovely, was the first thing that came to mind?” Ondolemar asks incredulously.

“Absolutely! She was quite . . .”

“Move on with the story,” Ondolemar interrupts, prodding the Estormo to continue. Knowing his flair for theatrics, the last thing he needed was the flamboyant Mer to drag out his story like usual.

“Anyway, in so many words, I demanded she hand over the staff.” He chuckles thinking back on the event. “Without hesitation, she yells ‘here’ then throws the staff at me, hitting me in the face. Before I could react a Dremora was towering over me with a greatsword at my throat.” Estormo laughs fondly while recounting his tale.

“That’s funny to you?” Ondolemar inquires, wondering if he missed the joke.

“Yes!” Estormo beams. “While this Dremora was hovering over me, ready to kill me at any second. This cute little vixen shouts, ‘better luck next time’ and dashes out the door.”

“Makela,” Aria whispers in Alaric’s ear. He gives her a knowing look in agreement.

“Maybe five minutes after she left, everything went dark. I assume the Dremora punched me in my face before disappearing back to Oblivion.” Estormo’s ear-to-ear grin never leaves his face. “When I awoke, a healing poultice and a satchel of fruit was sitting across from me.” He heaves a long dramatic sigh at the thought.

“Why are you smiling?” Ondolemar asks confused by his Estormo's more eccentric than usual behavior. “You could have been killed.”

“Wait for it,” Ancarion interjects.

“I think I’m in love!” Estormo sings gleefully.

“What!?” Ondolemar, Alaric and Aria yelp in unison.

Ancarion bursts into laughter at the reaction.

“I mean, I said I think,” Estormo rambles. “She is of course a Redguard or Imperial or whatever. They're all the same; completely beneath me, but she is divine,” the enamored Thalmor swoons. “Of course, if she were Altmer, I’d marry her right on the spot.”

Aria notices Ondolemar’s jaw tense in reaction and smiles. “Jealousy almost makes him seem normal,” she whispers to Alaric, who nods in agreement.

“Alas she’s not Altmer or any Mer for that matter,” Estormo still going, more talking to himself that anyone else. “Maybe I’ll take her as a lover. A woman that delectable and fierce should be mine.”

Ancarion is nearly doubled over in laughter. “He’s been spewing this nonsense for days.” He stands up trying the catch his breath, “He won’t even heal his face.”

“It’s a reminder of my lady love.”

“The Dremora probably made that mark,” Ondolemar barks.

“Perhaps, but she wields him. Therefore, this love tap is all her.”

“Love tap?” Ondolemar inquires. “Are you serious?”

Estormo takes a seat on a bench near the stables and crosses his legs. He continues musing about “his lovely Redguard,” periodically going off topic and talking about encounters with a variety of women and men. Exactly what Ondolemar feared. However, he left his friend to ramble longer. Neither Estormo nor Ancarion had noticed he’d walked them to their carriage. Allowing this incoherent chatter to go on is a small to price to pay to get them out of Markarth as quickly possible. Of course, listening to Estormo drift from his newfound crush to a variety of sexual encounters was starting to feel more like punishment.

“Did I tell you about the time Liliana and I . . . uh grouped,” Estormo chuckles. “Yes. for lack of a better word in polite company.”

Ondolemar groaned internally; any conversation involving Estormo’s former lover, Liliana tended to be more depraved than he wanted to deal with this early in the day. However, he stayed quiet, assuming Estormo knew this was not the setting for this subject.

“Anyway, we were ‘grouping’ with this most delicious Dunmer couple.” Estormo leans forward with a dramatic gesture. “They summon a Dremora couple to join us and . . . “

“No!” Ondolemar yelps, shaking his head side-to-side to make it clear to end the conversation.

Estormo understands and leans back sighing. “Fine,” he replies rolling his eyes. “But, if I may.” He looks around at the group before him. “It. Was. Exquisite.” His eyes bright with mirth as he flashed on the memory.

“You could’ve kept that to yourself,” Ondolemar adds, rubbing his forward to massage his rapidly growing headache.

“I could have,” Estormo stands, eyes twinkling as he looks directly at Ondolemar. “I want to do that . . . summon a Dremora . . . with my lovely Redguard.”

Red was all Ondolemar saw. His blood boiled; anger, jealousy, and a flurry of emotions he didn’t understand overtook him. Drowning him. Why? He doesn’t know her. He’s not even sure he likes here. Why does this bother him? He didn’t have the answers. In this moment, he didn’t care. All he knows is his desire to hit Estormo. Hard. Fists balled at his sides, Ondolemar steps towards Estormo with rage in his eyes. Before he can do anything, Ancarion notices they’re standing just past the Markarth stables.

“Wait! When did we get her?” he asks, staring at Ondolemar. “Why aren’t we in your quarters? You do have quarters here, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course. But you’re not staying.” Ondolemar rolls his neck and takes several breaths, trying to center himself.

Cedran, the stable owner stands nearby chatting with Skaggi Scar-Face, the owner of the Left-Hand mines; both men turn curiously and watch the Thalmor. Ondolemar, quicker to embarrass than his colleagues, notices the men and quickly shushes the conversation. He’d agreed to go to the party, so there was no longer a reason for them to stay. Estormo gets the hint that Ondolemar wants them to leave and starts walking toward their carriage. “Come Ancarion, let’s go find my future paramour.”

Ondolemar lunges for his oblivious friend but is held back by Alaric. Ancarion never notices Ondolemar’s reaction and joins Estormo in the carriage.

“Wait!” Ondolemar calls out. “What happened with Ancano?” Realizing Estormo may have never crossed paths with Makela if it weren't for that evil jackass.

Estormo lights up as if suddenly remembering Ancano existed. “That's a good question. I don't know. It's been a few days since I left Labyrinthian. After the most recent incident, in Winterhold, I'd imagine he’s dead or in the custody of the Psijics or Stormcloaks. Either way, he’s no longer our problem. He was warned that he'd be on his own if things went awry.”

“Do you not care?” Ondolemar asks, surprised by the nonchalant reply.

“Do you?”

“No. Of course not.” Ondolemar hated Ancano and everything he stands for.

“Neither do I. Whatever has become of him, is too good for the rotten bastard.”

As much as he probably should, Ondolemar couldn't disagree. A person as reprehensible as Ancano deserves whatever ill fate is coming to him.

“See you at the party,” Estormo yells, ready to leave Markarth. 

Ancarion waves goodbye over his shoulder as they both disappear onto the main road.

Ondolemar takes a deep breath, he stares at his guards daring them to say anything. Alaric ignores the warning.

 “You don’t know if he was talking about Makela,” Alaric speaks up. “But if he was, be grateful Estormo is smitten with her. Otherwise he’d want to kill her for embarrassing him like that.”

Ondolemar storms off back to Understone Keep; spending the rest of the day reading and trying to forget the ridiculous visit and hopefully erase the thought of Estormo possibly having feelings for Makela.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if the Thalmor would be friends. Or would they simply tolerate each other because they have a common goal? I'm leaning toward the latter. 
> 
> Thank you for reading my story!


	7. Chapter 7

_Leki hits the floor with a thud then rolls to the side. She looks up at the Stormcloaks in the adjacent building and takes off running. Wrists still bound, she groans, needing her arms free to save herself._

_The destruction the dragon has left in his path is devastating. There's hardly anything left of Helgen. Leki is amazed and frightened by how quickly he destroyed the small town. Shifting her focus from the devastation ahead, she looks back to make sure the Stormcloaks weren't behind her._

_The hot gusts of wind took her by surprise as she went flying. White flashes before her eyes as her head crashes into a nearby building. Focusing on what could’ve been behind her, Leki never saw or heard the dragon's roar, as she ran into his path._

_The pain was sharp and immediate; lying against the building she wonders how she's going to survive this day. Leki hears the faint sound of a man talking to her. She opens her eyes, as she feels her body being lifted from the ground; Hadvar looks at her with a reassuring smile. “You're going to be alright,” he says calmly, carrying her into an undamaged building._

_After setting her down on the floor, Hadvar checks her head. “No new wounds,” he tells her relieved. Outside the dragon roars again, and they hear another building crumble in the distance. “We have to get out of here.” He pulls a dagger out and cuts the bindings from Leki's wrists. “Do you think you can walk?” He asks, helping her to her feet. “Should I carry you?”_

_“I think I can walk on my own,” she replies gratefully. “Thank you for helping me.”_

_Hadvar smiles politely. “Anytime.” He finds some Imperial armor in a nearby room and hands it to Leki. “Here. Put this on. I'll find you a weapon, in case you need to defend yourself.”_

_Leki takes the armor and stares at it with a sense of familiarity. She looks up to see Hadvar has stepped into another room. Attempting to move follow him, she feels a tight grip around her shoulders, holding her in place. She looks down to see nothing holding onto to her. Panic sets in as she starts struggling to free herself from the invisible grip._

“Still waiting, Makela,” a deep voice whispers.

Makela's eyes pop open, she attempts to sit up but feels herself being held in place. Only able to move her eyes, she looks around hoping that Jordis the Sword-Maiden is nearby, unfortunately she’s not. The one day she chooses to run errands.

Makela stares at the ceiling, trying calm herself. She'd chosen to sleep on the sofa believing it'd be so uncomfortable, she wouldn't fall into a deep sleep. She was wrong. With her legs propped on the arm of the sofa, no pillow or blanket, and sunlight streaming through the windows, Makela had fallen into a deep sleep, therefore succumbing to her dreams. Now she finds herself being held in place by an invisible force.

Feeling panic bubble within her, Makela takes several deep breaths and starts trying to rock her body to throw herself off the sofa. She can visualize herself shifting her body one, two, three times, but she isn't actually moving. Fighting back frustration and tears Makela takes inhales, counts to three then heaves, finally throwing herself to the floor. Fearing the invisible force will pull her back, she leaps off the floor, kicking the sofa before grabbing a stamina potion and rushing out the front door.

Of the randomly returning memories, Makela doesn't recall experiencing fear to the level she has within her dreams. But something felt familiar. Not just reliving the time she spent in Helgen; that voice, that touch, she knows it, but she doesn't know why. Trying to figure out the connections gnaws at her day and night. For that reason, she stays on the move. Free time is time to think, time to dream; Makela would rather avoid all and hope it resolves itself.

Running from problems, especially those that start with her, was not how she was raised. Everyone in the Antonius and Mokonyane families, her mother's side, are expected to face everything head on. Running and hiding are not options. Makela is reminded of this daily. Especially with Marcurio around. Aside from being overprotective to a fault, he's a constant reminder of her father and the family she left in Cyrodiil. The spitting image of his own father, her father’s twin brother, when she looks in her cousin's eyes, she sees pieces of the man that raised her.

Makela leans into the cool Solitude breeze hoping it will drive the sleepiness out of her. Knowing it won't, she takes a sip of the stamina potion. It won't do much more than the chill in the air, but every little bit helps. She stares at nothing and thinks about her next move. She's had no success finding how she ended up with the Stormcloaks. Makela has been wondering if she should speak with Ulfric Stormcloak; perhaps he had a clue. She shudders at the idea of facing the Jarl of Windhelm. Does he know her? Would he answer her questions or just try to kill her?

Ugh! She didn't have time for this. She had already been behind schedule and had several people (and Daedra) seeking her assistance. She had to get back on task and hopefully without anyone noticing her. That will be easier said than done. In the few days that have passed since the events with the Dark Brotherhood, rumors about the disappearance of the band of assassins were spreading like wildfire. Makela felt one of the hostages had been spreading the rumors. Knowing she can't afford any attention directed at her, she briefly regrets not killing them. “I’ll have to send Valdimar to deal with them,” she mutters to herself.

Raking her hand over her face, Makela heaves a sigh, sitting on the steps of Proudspire Manor, watching her children play with the other children of Solitude. She was finally feeling comfortable enough to leave and continue her mission. She wasn’t going to let a few rumors hold her back. Still tired and fighting a losing battle with fatigue, Makela takes two quick swigs of stamina potion and leans her face against the cold stone railing.

 “Do you think this Dark Brotherhood fiasco will come back to bite you?” Marcurio asks, sitting next to her. He takes the remaining stamina potion and caps the bottle.

“Probably,” she answers, reaching for the bottle. He slaps her hand away and places it in his pocket.

“So nonchalant,” Marcurio groans.

“What else can I do? Sit around worrying?” Makela stands, stretching before dusting off the back of her breeches.

“I don’t believe Grelod cared enough about you or Aventus to perform the Black Sacrament.”

“Neither do I,” Makela remarks, turning away from Marcurio. “I spared her and gave her enough gold to start over anywhere else in Tamriel.”

Except for the distant voices of the children running toward the marketplace, Solitude is relatively quiet. Makela momentarily stares into the distance, contemplating Marcurio's words.

“Yet, she sent the Dark Brotherhood after you.” Marcurio stands and pulls a piece of taffy from his satchel. “And they came to recruit you instead of killing you. It doesn’t feel right.”

“I know, but . . .” Makela puts on one of her bright smiles and snatches the taffy from Marcurio.

“Hey!”

She quickly shakes away the thought and pops a piece of taffy in her mouth, behind for a little while.

“Makela!” Marcurio calls out.

She stops, turning back to him.

“You have to stop drinking stamina potions and get some sleep.” He advises her. “Forcing yourself to stay awake won't stop the dreams.”

Makela frowns then nods in agreement. “It's not the dreams.”

“What is it?”

She sits back on the steps next to Marcurio. “The other day I had the usual dreams, but this time something grabbed my arm. When I woke up, I couldn't move, like my arm was still being held. Today, my whole body felt like it was being held down.”

Marcurio sits up with concern. “Maybe its sleep paralysis. Like when you were younger.”

Puzzled, Makela stares at him. “I don't know what you're talking about.” Something else she should’ve remembered. She had herself and the others convinced she had most of her memories back. But every now and then she sees flickers of something lost deep in her subconscious. Something very important.

“You don't?” He wants to ask more questions but stops himself. “Okay.” He waits for her to relax. “Look, although you're worried about whatever's in your dreams, you have to rest. You need to sleep. So, do it.” He looks at her warmly. “We're here for you. I'm here for you. I won't let anything happen to you.”

Makela smiles at her cousin. “I know.” She stands and leaps off the steps. “But right now, I choose to pretend nothing is happening,” she admits and runs out to join the children playing tag. She knows that’s the last thing Marcurio wants to hear, but in this moment, she can't deal with much more.

Once she's out of sight, Marcurio drops his head and sighs. “What's wrong?” Vorstag inquires walking up with Jenassa.

“Makela may have had sleep paralysis couple times this week.” Marcurio explains what has been happening to Makela and the fact that she doesn't recall having these issues in the past. They each agree to keep eyes on her. Jenassa go so far as to volunteer to room with her at inns and at home if necessary.

******

After spending the better part of the day fishing and practicing swordplay with the children, Makela is back inside Solitude for a foot race, which is two laps around the Hall of the Dead that ends in front of Proudspire Manor. Makela purposely comes in last place, pretending to be too tired to win the race. The children laugh as she flails on the grounds, pretending to be out of breath. Blaise is sitting on the stoop pouting. “You lost on purpose,” he whines.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Blaise,” Makela sits up on the ground. “I’m completely worn out.”

“You’re a trained Alik’r warrior,” he yelps. “No way you’re worn out.”

“Correction my dear. I trained as an Alik’r mage,” Makela retorts and hops off the ground. “I didn’t have to run around in heavy armor in all that heat.” She stretches and winks at Blaise. “Thank the divines; it was hot in that desert.”

Blaise is not moved by her playfulness. “Whatever!” He barks standing, ready to go inside the house. “When you race me, don’t hold back. Do your best, so I can do mine.”

Face alight with pride, Makela bows to him. “As you wish, Master Blaise. Do keep in mind, I’ve been training for years. But if you insist, I will no longer hold back.”

“Good!” He yells, opening the door. “Bring it on.” Blaise enters the house, slamming the door behind him. Makela looks around at the other children smiling but surprised. Just as she’s about to comment, Blaise runs out the door and hugs her. “Have a good trip and be careful.”

“I will,” she says, hugging him back. “Wait! Are you not going with me?” She gave Blaise and the other children expectant looks even though she already knew the answer. They hated Markarth. She couldn't blame them, for children it could seem rather dull. In Solitude, they'd have other children to play with, plus Viarmo allows them to spend time at the Bard's College learning various musical instruments. The perks of being the children of the woman that saved the Burning of King Olaf Festival.

Blaise looks at Makela with sympathetic eyes.  “Sorry Ma, please not this time. “Jorn said he'd teach me how to play the drum.”

“Really?”

Blaise shakes his head excitedly.

“What if I told you Argis knew how to play the drum?”

“Ma!” Blaise pouts dropping his head.

“Fine Blaise,” Makela chuckles. “Leave me all alone with Marcurio.”

Blaise smiles relieved she'd given in so easily. He immediately let’s her go and runs back in the house, followed by the other children.

“Well, that was interesting,” Makela laughs to herself.

“Hey!”

Makela turns to see Vorstag walking towards her. “Hey! You’re just getting back from Dragon Bridge?”

“I got back a few hours ago. While you were out playing with the children.”

“How was it?”

“Commander Maro is pleased.”

“Great. We should probably head out in a few hours.”

Vorstag agrees and heads up the steps. Before going into the house, he turns back to Makela. “Delphine is at the stables.”

_Crap!_ “Okay. I’ll go see her in a bit. First I have to meet this Malborn guy she was talking about.”

******

“What is that?” Makela asks with a tiny air of disgust, staring at the drab outfit Delphine offered her. She had just received an invitation to the Thalmor party along with directions to the Thalmor Embassy. Already disappointed that the invitation didn’t allow her to bring a guest, meaning she had no back up in what would probably be one of the most dangerous tasks of her life; and it wasn’t even for the Legion. Thank the Divines she was a master at conjuring creatures from Oblivion. Mara knows she was going to need all the help she could get.

“It’s clothes for the party.”

“No,” Makela says pushing the mud-colored coat and trousers back at Delphine. “It’s a travesty and I will not wear it.” Makela groaned at her inner snob coming out. But she had to take a stand. She spends most of her time in armor, one of the few times she gets to dress up, she’s asked to wear a hideous quilted coat and a pair of wool trousers. The absurdity. She could envision both her grandmothers cringing, appalled at the thought of Makela representing the Mokonyane and Antonius families wearing such a ridiculous costume.

“What do you care?” Delphine snapped. “You’re an adventurer.”

_Adventurer!_ Makela gristles whenever someone calls her that. “I’m not. But I am going to adventure down to Radiant Raiment and buy myself a proper outfit.”

“Don’t be silly, Makela. You can’t stand out.”

“I won’t.”

“Did you talk to Malborn?”

“Yes. It took a great deal of self-control not to slap that idiot,” Makela rolls her eyes recalling their conversation.

“Did you give him armor to change into once you’re ready to infiltrate the embassy?” Delphine asks, ignoring Makela’s comment.

“Yes. Weapons as well.”

“So why do you need specially made garments from a fancy clothing store when you won’t be wearing it long?”

Makela taps her chin, pretending to ponder Delphine’s question. “I don’t want to be seen in these hideous clothes,” she answers coolly, stuffing the invitation and map in a pack, preparing to leave.

“You're a bit of a stuck-up bitch,” Delphine rudely retorts.

Makela’s eyes shoot up from that pack. The scowl on her face nearly makes Delphine tremble. “I am an . . .” She stops herself. “Screw you, Delphine.” She snatches the party clothes from Delphine and starts walking away from the stables.

“Are you going to wear the outfit to the party?” Delphine shouts to her retreating back.

“Oh gods, no!” Makela yells back.

An hour after talking to Delphine, Makela is walking away from Radiant Raiment after buying a dress for the party and some additional items. Divines knows shopping for anything other than armor and weapons are rare opportunities, she was happy to make the most of this one.

On the walk back to Proudspire Manor she gets a sudden feeling of unease. All day she's felt as if eyes were constantly on her. Looking up, she watches as an eagle flies overhead. On an off day, that damned eagle’s shadow makes her think a dragon is approaching.  Letting out an exasperated huff, she picks up her pace. It’s time to leave Solitude.

 Near The Fletcher, a tall Imperial, a Penitus Oculatus Agent, dressed in the armor of a high-ranking officer, leans on the stone bannister watching Makela walk by. An evil glint in his dark eyes, he smirks to himself, as if he’s biding his time. “Makela’s alive,” he mumbles to himself. Once she's out of view, he makes his way down the ramp, walking toward the Winking Skeever.


	8. Chapter 8

The cloud cover didn't mar the beauty of the night sky over Markarth. Arriving just before dawn, Makela was tired, but not sleepy. Instead of going to bed like the others, she headed straight to Ghorza gra-Bagol’s forge to repair her swords and daggers. Toiling at the forge gives her a sense of peace. Smithing was one of many things she and her brother Divad learned from her father. Growing up in a life of privilege, he felt it was important his children learn to appreciate hard work and to fend for themselves. Servants and hired hands weren't always going to be at their beck and call. Plus, he believed nothing was more satisfying than carrying a blade forged by your hands. Although, they all preferred the use of magicka in battle, almost every blade she carries is made or repaired by her herself.

Done sharpening the last sword, Makela sits on the edge, near the water wheel. Leaning against a beam, she closes her eyes to enjoy the peaceful solace of the rushing water. This could be her favorite place in all Markarth. No. It must be the waterfall inside Jarl Igmund’s quarters. _How lucky is he to be able to sleep near rushing water?_ She ponders to herself. Closing her eyes, she relaxes, losing herself in thought. She thinks back to her childhood, when she would spend time with her family in Stros M’kai. Without a doubt, that was her favorite place in Tamriel. The sea seemed like it was never-ending. Of course, Cyrodiil and Skyrim have their own beautiful bodies of water, but Cyrodiil was Cyrodiil; and Skyrim was just too damned cold.

Thinking of Stros M’kai, conjures thoughts of a time Makela visited Summerset Isles. Probably because, like Stros M’kai, it was surrounded by the Abecean Sea. The country popped into her mind because of beauty and architecture. _It has nothing to do with the fact that it was Ondolemar’s home country._ At least that’s what she told herself.

She had visited once, with her mother, when she was a little girl. It was beautiful. The architecture, the foliage, and of course the sea. The sea was the most beautiful of all. _I wonder if he likes the sea._ She thought to herself. Naturally her thoughts drift back to Ondolemar; a frequent occurrence in recent days.

“I wager he does, Princess,” a deep voice whispers, then chuckles lightly. “We should ask him.”

Startled, Makela jerks up, nearly falling off the edge of the forge. Regaining her balance, she looks around for the voice, then decides to head back to Vlindrel Hall for breakfast. Walking up the steps, she imagines Argis lecturing her for not getting enough rest or having a decent meal before heading out for the day.

******

Ondolemar tried not to appear relieved when he was nearly bowled over by the woman that had been haunting his thoughts for the past several weeks. “Makela, do be careful,” he yelps, recovering from their near fall.

“Okay!” Makela replies, not noticing how unusually flustered the Thalmor is this afternoon. She looks around for Faleen and the Jarl before taking Ondolemar’s hand. She assumes they’re in his quarters for their daily meeting. Good. More time with Ondolemar. “Where’s Aria and Alaric?” She inquires, closing her hand tightly over his, leading him toward the kitchen.

Puzzled, it takes him a few seconds to reply. “They’re still in their quarters. I was too anxious to wait.”

“Oh. Big plans today?”

“What do you mean?”

“You were anxious. Why?”

“I, I don’t know.”

Makela pauses looking up at him. She briefly looks at his hair; sides and back freshly fade cut with four purposely crooked braids neatly pulled into a loosely tied top knot. Mara help her, she wants her fingers through those beautiful white locks. Catching herself staring, she turns her attention to his eyes. “You sensed I’d be here.” she says with a smile as bright as the morning sun. She leans into his arm like a new bride. “You’re so sweet.”

Ondolemar freezes, partly pondering if that was the case. _No! That couldn’t be it._ He thinks to himself. Makela gently tugs him along.

“Did you eat, yet?” She asks, noticing the absence of the dog that normally annoys Ondolemar.

“No.”

“Hmm. I’m sure Anton has already started setting out lunch.”

Enticed by the aroma of fresh baked snowberry crostatas, Makela releases Ondolemar’s hand and rushes into the kitchen, right into Anton’s arms. “You knew I was coming back,” she squeals. Anton wraps his arms around her.

“Or I saw you working at the forge early this morning,” he chuckles.

Makela tilts her head to the side smiling. “That’ll work.” She rushes to the table reaching for a plate. “How many may I have?”

“You may have as many as you want, but shouldn’t you have breakfast first.”

“I’ve already eaten.” Makela waves Ondolemar in and hands him a plate. “Venison chops and vegetable stew.”

“But you hate venison,” Anton comments, surprised she’d eat something she hasn’t liked since childhood.

“Exactly!” She responds, frowning at the thought of the dreaded meal. “Could someone please tell Argis that? He kept going on with some nonsense about eating something hearty that would stick to ribs. Ugh!”

Ondolemar snickers at the faces she makes on reaction to the thought of venison. “It is good for you,” he adds.

“Some believe charred skeever is good for you, but I’m not knocking myself out to eat that garbage.”

Anton and Ondolemar both burst into laughter. “That’s fine, Makela dear.” Anton hands her a mug. “I made some honey and mint tea just for you. Wash that venison taste from your mouth.”

“Thank you so much, Anton,” she wipes an invisible tear from her eye. “You are a lifesaver.” With a plate stacked with snowberry crostatas, Makela takes a seat at a table set up just outside the kitchen.

“So, what did you do with it?” Anton playfully asks.

“Do with what?” Makela responds pretending she doesn't know what he's talking about.

“The venison. After you buried the venison under a pile of vegetables, what did you do with it?”

“You remember that?” Her eyes light up.

“Yes, of course.” Anton looks at a curious Ondolemar to explain. “When she was a child, if she didn't like something on her plate, she'd bury it under something she liked, pretend to be full, then throw out the offensive meal.” He looks to Makela as she nods her confirmation. “I can't remember the number of times we found food in a potted plant or a bowl floating in the river.”

Makela chuckles in embarrassment as Ondolemar stares at her in shock. “I was just a child. I don't do that anymore.”

“So, how did you discard the venison?” Ondolemar asks.

“I gave it to one of Banning's dogs.”

“Makela!” Anton yelps. “You are allergic to dogs. Just tell Argis to stop cooking venison.”

“I have.” With that she ends the conversation and turns her focus back to the crostatas. Closing her eyes after the first bite, Makela looks like she’s just bitten into a tiny piece of paradise. “Mmmm. Mara bless you, Anton. Do you remember when I was a little girl and I asked you to marry me?”

“You were the ripe old age of eight,” Anton chuckles, fondly reminiscing of the younger Makela. “Much too young to be thinking of marriage.”

“Well, I'm well past eight,” Makela reminds him. “Mother gave me my Amulet of Mara when I came of age. I insist you meet me at the Temple of Mara in Riften. We can be married immediately, and you'll move into Vlindrel Hall and cook for me forever.”

Anton laughs. “Oh Makela, you've not changed since childhood. I love that about you.”

“Fantastic! So, you'll marry me?”

“And what of Raerek?” Anton smiles looking toward the dais. “Have you forgotten my heart belongs to him?”

“Briefly,” Makela admits. “He can live with us. You both can have the master bedroom. We can move Argis and his venison to your room.” She turns to Anton. “I don't want your heart, I want your food. Raerek can have the rest of you.”

Again, Anton laughs out loud. “You can have my food anytime you like. Save marriage and your mother's Amulet of Mara for the one that has your heart.”

Makela looks at Ondolemar as he finishes making himself a plate of food. “Very well,” she whines. “You've broken my heart twice in one lifetime.” Makela sniffles, pretending to tear up. “How will I ever forgive you?”

Anton sets a bag in front of her, packed with a sealed crock of beef stew, several loaves of bread and a variety of sweet rolls and crostatas. “For your journey,” Anton says smiling at Makela's surprised face. She leaps up and hugs the crafty old man.

“I love you, Anton. All is forgiven.” Makela kisses him on the cheek. “Raerek is a very lucky man,” she remarks, before sitting and turning her attention back to her pile of crostatas.

 Makela sinks her teeth into the sweet pastry then lifts the plate to Ondolemar as he sits across from her. “Have some.” She offers, a bit of food still in her mouth. “Oops!” She quickly covers her mouth with a napkin and swallows down the last morsel. “Pardon my manners.” She wipes her mouth, looking around the room. “Don’t tell my mother about that,” she whispers, leaning toward the smiling elf.

“Never,” he chuckles.

“Much appreciated.”

“If you don’t mind my asking; why aren’t you married?” Ondolemar inquires, overwhelmed by curiosity.

“Because Raerek stole my husband before I was born,” Makela playfully pouts.

He laughs at her response. “But seriously. You’re a very lovely woman; beautiful, clever, exciting, and quite intelligent. Why hasn’t someone swept you off your feet and made you theirs?”

Makela’s eyes sparkle, a wide grin spreads across her face as she looks up at Ondolemar. “Are you offering?”

Ondolemar’s eyes go wide at her question. The two of them surprised by her boldness.

What is she doing? Brief touches, accidental bumps, longing from a distance is enough for her. Isn't it? But now that the words have spilled out her mouth, she keeps going. Like a snowball rolling downhill, she can't stop herself.

“I am not an easy catch,” Makela continues, leaning forward. “But I’m sure you’ll enjoy the chase. I bet we both will.” The seductive glint in her eyes does not go unnoticed.

“Makela! I wasn’t...” Ondolemar stammers looking to Anton for assistance.

Makela lets a teasing chuckle. “I’m kidding.” She wasn't. She quickly averts her eyes as it dawns on her what she’d just said to him. Being flirty was never her forte. That was Marcurio's talent. She's watched him enough over the years to think some of his skills would have rubbed off on her. But she was wrong. “Marcurio makes this look so easy,” she mumbles to herself, quickly turning toward Anton to keep Ondolemar from noticing her suddenly bashful smile. “Anton, may I... may I ... Never mind, I'll get it myself,” she hops from her seat.

Stunned, Ondolemar watches Makela scurry into the kitchen. “Is she alright?” He asks, starting to stand to go after her.

“She's fine,” Anton replies, giving him a reassuring smile. “She's not the flirt in the family. Sit. Eat. I'll check on our blushing bride.” He offers Ondolemar a cup of tea before going in to the kitchen.

Makela stands by the fireplace stirring a cauldron of stew and berating herself for moving too fast on Ondolemar. “Is he still out there?” She asks, hearing Anton's approach.

“How did you know it was me and not him coming after you?”

“His footsteps are slightly heavier, his strides are longer and more assured,” she replies still facing the fireplace. “He walks with an astonishing amount of confidence and self-awareness.”

“My goodness, Makela, you are really attuned to him,” Anton stares befuddled, standing next to her. “This is not some simple flirtation.”

As the stirring spoon clanks on the floor, she turns to Anton, eyes full of confusion. “Yes, it is. It can't be anything more.”

“Of course, Dear Heart,” he says wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

“Putting down a dragon is less stressful than trying to be a seductress,” Makela admits, leaning her head against Anton.

“I bet it is. The early stages of love are quite challenging, but it gets better.”

“Love?” Makela freezes at the thought. A fragment of a memory comes from the back of her mind. “ _You don't need to love me, my sweet Makela,” a man's calmly asserts. “I have enough love for the both of us.”_ She stills, trying to recall the owner of the voice.

After a few seconds Anton calls out to her. She turns to see him smiling at her. She returns a smile then steps back to challenge his last remark. He quickly shushes her. “Come now, you've left the poor man worrying about you.” He takes her hand to lead her back to the table.

Ondolemar immediately stands, when Makela returns and takes her hands. Surprised, she stares at their entwined hands, following as he leads her to a chair next to his. _Whoa! He took my hand. This must be a fever dream or something_. She places her other hand on her forehead, checking her temperature. _Hmm, not a fever._ Once he releases her hand, she watches in stunned silence as he places his plate in front of her, then takes his seat.

“Wait!” She looks surprised. “This is yours. I can't take it.”

“You can and you will.” Ondolemar hands her a fork, then takes one for himself. “There's plenty. We'll share.”

 _This can't be real..._ She thinks to herself watching him take a piece of potato from the plate.

“Eat up.” He nods at the plate. “If you are giving your meal to dogs, you haven't had enough for yourself.”

Makela slowly takes a slice of beef and places it in her mouth. She sighs as she chews the tender meat. “Just like I remember.” Anton has always made the best potatoes and beef. Her family's cook in Cyrodiil, tried to replicate his recipe, but was never successful. Very few people cook as well as Anton.

“Good!” Ondolemar smiles watching her enjoy their food.

 _What is he doing?_ Makela nervously wonders to herself. _Sweet Mara, he should stop._ Ondolemar rarely smiles. When he does, it brightens a room. It truly is hard to believe he walks around with that semi-permanent scowl on his face. Perhaps it's for the best he does. Makela would probably never leave his side if he smiled like that on a regular basis. _I could lose myself in that smile._ She shifts in her seat and focuses on her meal.

The three of them talk, while Makela and Ondolemar continue to eat. The conversation is light-hearted and casual. They discuss everything from their favorite books and plays to places they hope to visit in the future. Occasionally, Makela's thoughts go back to the moment he took her hand, but for the most part she tries to keep things impersonal. No more attempts at flirting and no thoughts of love. As much as she'd love to have him for herself, she knows that's not in the stars for her. She convinces herself she'll have stick to brushing her hand against his and longing for him from a distance. She'll stand by that belief until the next opportunity she gets to spend time with him.

Just as she tucks that thought away, she notices Alaric walking up in full armor sans helmet; his long, silver hair pulled back into a neatly braided ponytail. She waves him over, to join them. “Good morning, Alaric.”

“Good morning, Makela.” He looks between her and Ondolemar. “You two seem to be having a good time.”

“I am,” she says, winking at Ondolemar. She points to her plate of crostatas. “These crostatas are to die for,” she pauses, second guessing her comment. “Well maybe not die. You know what I mean.” She holds the plate up to him. “Here, taste?”

“Thank you.” Alaric takes the pastry and smiles politely. “Oh, yes. Your companions are over by the throne. Marcurio seems quite impatient.”

“When does he not?” Makela retorts, rolling her eyes. “Well I guess I’d better check in.” She stops behind Alaric. “I've never seen your hair before, Alaric. It's quite beautiful.” She looks at Ondolemar as if the compliment was meant for him. “It's too bad you have to wear that helmet all day,” she adds, clearing her throat and turning to Alaric. She awkwardly smiles at them both before heading to the throne. Alaric shrugs at Ondolemar then takes a bite of the crostata. A few seconds later, Makela runs back. “Alaric!”

“Yes, Makela.” He responds, looking at Ondolemar, then turning to her.

“Are you and Aria a couple?” Alaric’s eyes go wide, like a child caught stealing the last sweet roll. “Dammit!” Makela pouts. “I knew it, but I was kind of hoping otherwise.” Alaric stares open-mouthed at her, feeling Ondolemar’s eyes boring into him.

“I know a woman in Windhelm that would be perfect for you.” She chews on her bottom lip and ponders. “Blast it,” she sulks. “I guess you know who’s perfect for you better than I...”

“No!” Alaric quickly interrupts Makela. “Aria and I are not together.”

“No? Why?”

“Why!? Well...” He hesitates. “I'm not her type.”

“Is that so? Do you know who her type would be?”

Alaric looks at Ondolemar then back at Makela. “I don’t know. You, maybe. And Vorstag.”

“Me?” Makela smiles, flattered by the idea of being Aria's type. Before going into a daze, she walks back to the table and grabs the bag of goodies Anton had packed for her. “If only, I wasn't already taken with someone else.” She quickly glances at Ondolemar then looks at Alaric. “I do know someone in Whiterun I think Aria would love.”

“Makela!” Marcurio yells from the dais.

“Well, I have to run. I guess I'll have to play matchmaker another time.” She nods with another smile and waves goodbye to Alaric, who sighs in relief then takes a huge bite of his crostata. As she starts toward her waiting companions, she pauses to whisper in Ondolemar’s ear. “I'm overjoyed that you finally addressed me by my name. It makes me wonder if ... never mind. Thank you for spending a little time with me.” She leaves with a huge smile on her face.

Ondolemar sits frozen, still feeling the closeness of Makela’s lips to his ear. “Are you alright?” Alaric asks, pulling his stunned superior from his stupor.

“I'm fine,” Ondolemar snaps. Showing Alaric that Makela hadn't completely freed him of the testy leader he'd grown used to.

“If you say so,” Alaric replied.

Anton laughs heartily as he sits two mugs of coffee in front of the men. “That girl is getting under your skin.”

“What? Don't be absurd,” Ondolemar mumbles.

“Okay.” Anton laughs.  “I’d wager there are men and women from here to Windhelm dying to have the attention Makela heaps on you. Not to mention, those she left behind in Cyrodiil. Keep that in mind, before you allow your Altmer pride to get in your way.”

Aria walks up and sits next to Alaric. “Makela looks quite cheerful and pretty, today.” She comments, before taking a crostata from the plate in front of her.

Anton burst into laughter and pats Ondolemar on the back. “Mind your Ps and Qs, my boy. Competition is all around you,” he states matter-of-factly as he walks back into the kitchen.

*****

Near the dais, Marcurio is huddled with Jenassa looking at a map and discussing places to hunt and fish. Makela overhears them debating safe places free of potential Forsworn attacks. It doesn't really matter where they go, most areas in the Reach are overrun with Forsworn. The risk of an attack is high. After dealing with Madanach, Makela has become a prime target for the Forsworn.

 _Ugh! Is there anyone in the country that doesn’t want to kill me?_ Makela worries to herself.

Off to the side, away from the dais, Faleen and Vorstag are leaning against the wall whispering. Makela stares at them for a moment, curious about their secret conversation. Curious and a teeny bit uncomfortable. _What’s the big secret? What’s going on?_ She stares a big longer until she’s pulled out of her thoughts by Jarl Igmund. “Makela. Makela!”

“Yes!” Makela turns to the throne to acknowledge the Jarl.

“Good morning.”

Before she can start a conversation with Igmund, a courier approaches with a message. She quickly reads it; it's from Brynjolf, asking her to meet Mercer at Snow Veil Sanctum as soon as possible. She apologizes to the Jarl for her rudeness then kisses him on the cheek.

“Oh. Good morning.” Faleen finally notices her and walks over with Vorstag.

“Good morning and goodbye,” she replies with a tense smile. She hands Marcurio the message then takes her pack.

“Goodbye?” Igmund questions. “You just got here. I thought you were going hunting.”

“Yes, I know.” Makela looks at Faleen then back to the Jarl. “Change of plans.”

“Where are you going, now?” Faleen asks in a concerned tone.

Makela hesitates, “Eastmarch.”

“Eastmarch? Why?”

Marcurio stands by quietly, not surprised by his cousin's sudden change in demeanor

“Thieves Guild business,” Makela answers, turning away from Faleen. Making it obvious she's freshly disgruntled with her.

“Thieves Guild?” Igmund inquires. “Why must you continue to run with that band of miscreants?”

Makela gives him a soft smile. “It’s part of my mission.” She looks between Vorstag and Faleen, then back at the Jarl. “I’ll be back in a week or so. Maybe.”

She kisses Igmund on the cheek and heads down the steps.

“Be careful, Makela,” Faleen yells after her. Makela waves goodbye without looking back and continues out the keep. “Is she okay?” Faleen asks Marcurio.

Marcurio looks at Faleen then Vorstag. “I don’t know. Is she?” He snaps shaking his head. “This ...” He points between the two of them. “... was not supposed to be seen by her.”

“What!?” Vorstag yelps, confused. “Why?”

Marcurio glares at Faleen. “You tell him.” He storms down the steps, with Jenassa trailing behind him.

Vorstag looks at Faleen, expecting an answer. She simply shrugs pretending to be just as confused as him. He knows better but doesn't have time to pry it out of her. He grunts his disappointment and rushes down the steps.

******

“We can't go to Eastmarch, right now,” Marcurio scolds. “You have that damn Thalmor party. You'll never make it to Snow Veil Sanctum and back in time.”

Makela frowns, back turned to him, ignoring his common sense. She leans against the side of the carriage pouting.

“Send a message telling them you can't meet Frey right away.” He gestures to the courier who happens to be walking by. “If that's a problem let them solve their own damn problems.”

Makela continues to stubbornly ignore her cousin.

“Makela, be reasonable. We can't afford for you to allow anger to get the better of you.” He hands her paper and a pen. “Tell them they'll have to wait. Stay on task.”

There it is; her father's words. _Stay on task. Don't get distracted._ Taking the paper, she writes a quick note and hands it to the courier along with ten gold coins. “I don't want to go hunting anymore,” she says turning to Marcurio.

“We won't. What do you want to do?”

“Nothing.” Makela starts walking toward the Markarth gate. “I'm going home.” She walks past Vorstag and Jenassa without a word. Stopping she looks at Vorstag then continues to the city gate. _He's like a brother to me. So, why would it bother me if Faleen is interested in him?_

“Makela!” Vorstag calls out.

“I just need to be alone for a little while.” She replies as the gate slams behind her.

On the other side of the gate another memory comes to her. The same voice from earlier. _“To think, if it weren't for Faleen we'd never have met,” the man gleefully remarks. “I must thank her for recommending me to your grandmothers.”_

“Who was that?” Makela leans against the cold metal gate. “How many damn voices do I have in my head?”

******

Confused by her sudden change in emotions, Makela spends most of the day closed off in her room. Feeling lost and sad, she has no clue what is causing her so much anguish or how to deal with it. Keeping her distance from Marcurio and everyone else helped, but she was bored. Going to sleep wasn't an option, so she opted to read.

She was flipping through a stack of journals Marcurio had given her some time ago. He and the others had written these journals hoping they'd help her recover her memories. Most of her memories came back naturally, but the journals were a great help with filling in the blanks. All but Faleen's. The journal she'd written felt lacking. There were plenty of tales about their childhood, but nothing from the last few years. As if they'd had no interactions. Makela had questioned her cousin about it but received no answers of value. Faleen said she'd hadn't had a chance to complete the journal and would when time was provided. Makela couldn't help but wonder when Faleen would find the time. If she had time to flirt with Vorstag, clearly, she had time to provide a few missing links from Makela's memory.

Feeling selfish, Makela quickly admonishes herself. She'd waited weeks for Faleen to finish the journal. It wouldn't kill her to wait a little longer. However, Faleen is connected to the man in the new memory. She has answers to Makela's questions. Why is she holding them back? Makela needed to know, but not now. Something tells her not to trust Faleen to be truthful at this moment.

Tired of thinking and being cooped up, Makela succumbs to cabin fever and decides to take a walk. Standing outside Vlindrel Hall she looks toward Understone Keep. She wants to see him. Why? He can do nothing to help her, and probably wouldn't if he could. Still, she wants to see Ondolemar. Unfortunately, her desire not to see Faleen outweighs her desire to see him. So, she heads off to the Temple of Dibella. Perhaps some time in prayer to the Goddess of Beauty will ease some tension within her mind.

Dressed in a blue mage robe, she pulls the hood over her head, hoping no one will recognize her.

“Makela?”

“I guess not the best disguise,” she mumbles to herself. She turns to see Gunnar rushing toward her. “Good evening.” She politely smiles at the happy guard.

“I heard you'd left for Eastmarch.”

“No, I'm still here,” she growls inwardly at her passive aggressive reply. “I changed my mind at the last minute.”

“Wow. That's great. I was sad that I missed you.”

She smiles halfheartedly. His happy demeanor is slightly overwhelming. “It's a good thing we bumped into each other.”

“It certainly is,” he replies excitedly. He looks out over the city then back at Makela. “Will you be staying a while.”

“A few days.”

“Great. Do you ...” He hesitates; averting his gaze but maintaining his smile. “Do you want to ...” He pauses again.

Makela looks up at the suddenly shy guard and smiles. “Gunnar, you owe me a night out at the Silver-Blood Inn. Would you like to go tonight?” She doesn't want to go but he's so sweet and maybe going out will relieve her of her depressed mood.

“Yes!” He blurts, a little louder than he planned. “I'd love to go.”

“Fantastic. What time are you off duty?”

“Uh, seven o'clock.”

“Great. Will you meet me at Vlindrel Hall at eight? We can walk to the Silver-Blood Inn together.”

“That would be wonderful,” he beams.

“Yes.” Makela turns and looks up the stairs to the Temple of Dibella then back to Gunnar. “Now, if you'll excuse me. I'd like to spend a little time with Dibella.”

“Yes. Of course. I'll seek you at eight.”

“I'm looking forward to it.” She nods to Gunnar then makes her way up the steps.


	9. Chapter 9

_Leki checks the map Hadvar had given her one more time. Whiterun was just ahead. “Finally,” she mumbles to herself. It wasn't the longest walk she'd ever taken; she guesses, but after nearly getting beheaded, getting knocked around by a dragon, then fighting her way out of Helgen; she was damned tired. Alvor, Hadvar's uncle had invited her to stay, but Leki wanted to get far away from Helgen as soon as possible. The food, clothes, and polite hospitality they’d given her before she set off on her journey was greatly appreciated. She hoped to repay the favor, one day._

_Now tired to the bone, she just wanted to deliver the warning to the Jarl, get a room at the nearest inn then sleep for three days. That should be enough for a woman that escaped execution and survived a dragon attack in the same day. Leki hummed a familiar but unfamiliar tune as she made her way on the road to Whiterun. It was eerily quiet except for the sounds of strange wailing and pounding. The ground shook with every thunderous pound. That was enough to peak her curiosity and cause her to run toward the chaos and possible danger._

_“Is that a giant?” She squealed in awe, as she skids to a halt. It was indeed; and he was swinging his club, fighting several people. “This is magnificent.” She grinned memorized by the sight. “I wonder if they need any help.” She took off running, then immediately stops. “I doubt I've ever fought a giant. What am I thinking?”_

_Rethinking her situation, but still wanting to help, Leki took the bow Hadvar had given her from behind her back. “Well, I got the bear with one shot.” Taking a slow steady breath, she aims the bow, then quickly releases the arrow. She watches as it arcs slightly, worried she hadn't aimed properly. Before getting a chance to doubt herself, the arrow soared downward right into the giant's neck. “Yes!” She quickly grabs her things and runs toward the four people standing over the giant._

“You are a woman that's full of surprises,” a deep voice calls out.

Startled, Makela jumps, knocking over a few dishes and books from the dining room table. Looking around the room disoriented, she realized she'd dozed off reading. “This chair isn't that comfortable. I must be really tired.” Since leaving Solitude, she hasn't slept much. It's starting to wear her down, but she's not ready to give in to her body's need for a full night's sleep.

After picking up the books and dishes, Makela grabs a small bottle of stamina potion. She can hear Marcurio scolding her in the back of her mind. Pushing his admonishment further back, she takes a long swig of the potion. “That should do it,” she whispers to herself, heading to her room to change for her meeting with Gunnar.

******

Reports completed and handed to a courier for delivery to the Thalmor Headquarters, Ondolemar sits at his favorite table outside the kitchen relaxing with a glass of wine. Aside from light chatter between guards, the keep is relatively quiet. The surprising tranquility leaves him the chance to allow his mind to drift. He loses himself in thoughts of his home and family in Summerset Isles, his plans for the next step in his career as a Thalmor Justiciar. Occasionally his thoughts go to Makela; the time they spent together earlier in the day, her smile, the softness of her hands, and how she smells like snowberries and moon sugar. Each time she intrudes in on his thoughts, he tries to shake her away. And each time it gets harder, but he must. There's no place for her in his life --she is a Redguard/Imperial-- he is an Altmer and a Thalmor and he'll keep reminding himself of that as long as she's around.

His peaceful thoughts are interrupted by laughter from Alaric whose approaching with Aria and Gunnar. The two guards sit with Ondolemar as Gunnar, smiling ear-to-ear enters the kitchen for a cup of water. “Seriously, Gunnar, what has you walking around with a silly grin like that?” Aria asks the overly happy guard.

Gunnar looks at the three Altmer, then squares his shoulders staring pointedly at Ondolemar. “I'm taking Makela to the Silver-Blood Inn, tonight.” Alaric and Aria take note of the guard's confident stance. As does Ondolemar, who slams his goblet down on the table, startling the others.

“Is that so?” He asks through gritted teeth. “Do have a good time.” Ondolemar glares at Gunnar as he snatches the goblet and takes a large gulp of wine.

Aria suppresses the urge to laugh and focuses on Gunnar. “Congratulations, my friend.” She kicks an empty chair toward him, nodding for him to sit. “May I ask a question?”

Sitting across from her, Gunnar agrees to answer her question.

“I've been meaning to ask before.” She leans forward. “Knowing that our fearless leader here is in love with Makela…”

“I am not!” Ondolemar snaps.

“Shush, you.” Aria holds her hand up, daring him to say another word. She returns her attention to Gunnar. “As I was saying, knowing he is attracted to Makela, and she's attracted to him, how was it so easy for you to boldly ask to call on her right in front of him?”

Gunnar swallows hard, feeling the tension from Ondolemar, then quickly composes himself.

“Firstly, I didn't know he was attracted to Makela when I first asked to spend time with her.” He eyes Ondolemar. “I had a feeling she might be interested in him, but I figured she had no chance and decided to leap at the opportunity.”

Ondolemar's glare puts the fear of the Daedra in Gunnar. The guard noticeably trembles but sits tall meeting Ondolemar's furious eyes.

“That makes sense,” Alaric remarks. “But over the past several weeks it's been pretty obvious what he feels is more than mere attraction.”

“What?” Ondolemar gets defensive.

“We're not talking to you.” Aria playfully scolds.

“But you are talking about me.”

“And we will continue to do so.” Alaric sits up in his seat. “Gunnar, now, you stand here so confident and practically bragging you're taking Makela out, tonight.”

“I wouldn't say I'm bragging.” He smiles. “But I'm pretty damned happy. And I have every right to be.”

“You're right.” Aria agrees. “But, aren't you worried about Ondolemar. Just a tiny bit.”

“Honestly? No.”

Ondolemar rolls his eyes and takes another gulp of wine.

“Well, maybe a tiny bit.” Gunnar corrects. “But, not enough not to try.”

“WHY?!” Ondolemar yells, tired of this conversation.

“Because you're a Thalmor. Because you think you're better than her. There is no future with you, for Makela.” Gunnar stops and studies the surprise on Ondolemar's face. “You may care for Makela. You may even love her, despite quickly denying it a few moments ago. But you will never commit to her or marry her. You can't.”

Feeling as if the young man had been reading his earlier thoughts, Ondolemar seethes in anger listening to Gunnar; but he doesn't interrupt.

“I mean given that she's not Altmer, you'd probably think to take her as a mistress. I heard some Thalmor do that.” Gunnar never takes his eyes off the person he now sees as competition. “But that wouldn't work with Makela. A woman of her status could never be your mistress. Her family would disown her.”

“Status?” Aria sits up with renewed curiosity. “What are you talking about? Who is her family?

“She is the…”

Ondolemar stands, abruptly pushing his chair out the way, interrupting Gunnar. “A few weeks ago, you didn't know she was mixed race. Now suddenly you’re an authority on her family lineage?”

Mouth agape, Gunnar stares at Ondolemar.

“I'm done with this conversation.” The agitated Thalmor looks at Gunnar. “Enjoy your time with Makela.” He starts leaving then stops, turning back to Gunnar. “By the way, I’m in no way, shape, or form better than Makela. She is a thousand times better than…” Cutting himself off he walks away.

“You have no right to be angry with me,” Gunnar yells at Ondolemar from behind. He freezes when Ondolemar turns to face him. Gunnar is by no means a coward, but he's out of his element dealing with a pissed off, powerful Altmer mage. He moves to step back but quickly stops and holds his ground. “She comes to you. Every single time she comes to Markarth, she goes straight to you.”

Ondolemar stands enraged, fist balled up at his sides.

“You have no idea how many times, I've watched her practically float over here to see you.” Gunnar heaves a breath and continues. “Some days, she stands outside whispering words of encouragement to herself. She reminds herself that she’s worthy of you.”

Ondolemar stands flabbergasted by Gunnar's words. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because she comes to you. Of all the people in this town, she comes to you. She barrels her way up the steps and into your arms. Her feelings for you are written all over her face, especially in her eyes … the way she looks at you. But you don’t see it. You stand there clueless.” Gunnar's tone is tainted with jealousy.

“If you think she has such strong feelings for me, why are you pursuing her?” Ondolemar asks, his indignation accenting every word.

“Why not? You won't.” Gunnar bites back.

“If what you say is true,” Ondolemar's features soften. “I don't have …” He smirks, deciding not to finish his thought. “Enjoy your evening.” He turns on his heel, walking away.

“I won't give up that easily,” Gunnar shouts.

“I should hope not.”

Gunnar sighs, mystified, giving Aria and Alaric an apologetic look. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset him.”

“Are you sure about that?” Aria's facetious grin relaxes the guard.

“Don't apologize.” Alaric waves him off. “He needed to hear it. Unfortunately for you, this conversation may have opened his eyes to his own feelings.”

“Never mind him,” Aria says, no longer interested in her moody boss, moving on to more important things. “Who is Makela's family?”

“Right. Her father is General…”

“Gunnar!” A voice yells from the steps near the dais. “You're off duty. Get going. You don't want to keep your lady friend waiting, do you?”

“OH! I have to go. It was good talking to you.” He scrambles away, rushing out to get ready for his date.”

“Wait!” Aria yells after him.

“Let him go,” Alaric says, stopping her from going after Gunnar. “We can find out another time.” He stands, giving his partner an impish look. “Do you want to go to the Silver-Blood Inn and watch the happy couple.

“I thought you'd never ask.” She sets off toward their quarters. “Maybe we can get Grumpy to go with us.”

Alaric chuckles. “Ooh, it won't hurt to ask. And it would be fun to watch. I can see him now, struggling to maintain his composure as Gunnar takes Makela’s hand.” They both giggle at the thought and continue to their quarters.

*****

A good book, good wine, and a little peace and quiet. A few of the comforts Ondolemar allowed himself since coming to Markarth. Sitting with his legs crossed in a chair in the corner of his suite, he adjusts himself against his favorite cushion from Summerset Isle. He chuckles at a line from the biography he's reading about Queen Aryenn. An almost perfect way to get Gunnar's nonsense off his mind.

His peace is quickly interrupted by his guards walking in still chattering about that witless guard and Makela.

“What are you going to do about Makela?” Aria inquires, hoping Gunnar made him see his feelings.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing!” Ondolemar's nonchalant response disappoints Alaric. “You must piss or get off the pot, my friend,” he blurts, walking toward Ondolemar.

“What?! What does that mean?” He questions, unamused by his guard's choice of words. “You are spending too much time with these Nords.”

“Perhaps. And you haven't spent enough. Gunnar is making his move, while you stand to the side watching.”

“We are not having this conversation,” Ondolemar snarls, placing a bookmark then closing his book.

“Of course not.” Alaric huffs.

“We're taking bets on who will steal her from under your nose,” Aria interjects to lighten the mood. “Estormo is more charming and adventurous.”

Ondolemar scoffs and slams his book down.

“But on the other hand, Gunnar has the advantage of actually knowing her. Plus, he’s a good man.” Aria continues, smirking at Ondolemar. “Who's your gold on?”

“Makela is not mine to be stolen,” Ondolemar barks, irritated by his guards.

“But she could be,” Alaric comments. “She's waiting for you to show more than a passing interest.”

“What would you have me do, Alaric?” The tension in the room is palpable.

“Go to the Silver-Blood Inn with us.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“We were planning to go, anyway; but now we can watch Gunnar woo Makela,” Aria interrupts, smiling.

“Why in Oblivion would I want to do that?”

“To distract her. Take her attention from him.”

Ondolemar stares at the two of them. They are Thalmor; members of the Aldmeri Dominion plotting like mischievous children. He should be disappointed, but he wants to believe they think they're working in his best interest. They're not.

“That would be pointless,” Ondolemar says, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “Gunnar is right. There is no future for Makela in my life.”

“Dammit, man! What is wrong with you?” Alaric blurts, turning away in disgust.

“What is wrong with you? Why are you pushing this?”

“Makela is a good woman,” Aria responds. Good for you.”

“How do we know she's a good woman?” Ondolemar yells his question not expecting an answer. “We don't know her. I don't know her. We see her every few weeks after she returns from gallivanting all over Skyrim.”

“Then get to know her,” Alaric commands.

Aria rolls her eyes, annoyed that Ondolemar is being so stubborn. “She’s the woman who saved Markarth, the Dragonborn, and she’ll probably save all of Skyrim and possibly the rest of Tamriel.”

“And for that, I should give her my gratitude, not my heart,” Ondolemar shouts, exasperated. He stands and walks to the table to refresh his goblet of wine. “She is not part of my plan.” He downs the wine and reaches for the bottle. “I have worked decades to get where I am. Decades! I’m not done yet.” He pours and drinks more wine. “I'm not giving up my goals for a passing fancy with a pretty woman.”

“Who says you have to?” Alaric asks.

“Stop it!” Ondolemar slams his goblet on the table, startling his guards. In all the years he's known Aria and Alaric, he's never known them to romanticize anything or anyone. Like many in their positions, they were always cold and aloof. What changed?

Most, if not all Thalmor believe Altmer are the dominant race. Ondolemar, the son of a former Thalmor Justiciar and an Altmer noble, was raised to believe that Mer were superior to Man and Altmer were superior to all. His parents believed as higher beings, Altmer should only marry and procreate with other Altmer. He spent most of his life having these beliefs drilled into his head.

Now, one captivating Redguard/Imperial woman has come into his life and turned his world upside-down. Not quite changing his mind but causing him to second-guess some of the values he's held close most of his life. What would it mean to his future as a Thalmor?

In the short time since meeting Makela, Ondolemar no longer believes she’s beneath him. When did that change?

“I am the commander of the Thalmor Justiciar,” he says, clenching his jaw, trying to sound calm. “I cannot have a future with Makela. You know that… you of all people know that.” He walks back to his chair. “Yes, I'm attracted to her. There, I admit it,” he exclaims, throwing up his hands. “But so, what.” He rakes his hand down his face. “I will not pursue or encourage her.”

“Because she's not Altmer?” Aria inquires.

“No! Because I'm a Thalmor.” Deep in his heart, he believes caring for Makela could be a threat to his past, present, and future.

The room is quiet for several minutes. The conversation didn’t go as Alaric and Aria had hoped. Now they both stand in silence, trying to figure out how to lighten the situation.

“Well, this has been awkward long enough.” Alaric finally breaks the silence. “I'm going to have a drink, spy on Gunnar, and spend a little quality time with Margret.”

“I'm right behind you,” Aria calls out. She turns to Ondolemar. “You’re still welcome to join us.”

Despite what he’d just said, the thought of Makela having a good time with Gunnar is making him crazy. As selfish as it may seem, distracting her attention from the unexpectedly confident guard would give Ondolemar great pleasure. “Fine! I shall join you,” he agrees, acting as if he was strong-armed into going.


	10. Chapter 10

The atmosphere of the Silver-Blood Inn was intimate but lively; not nearly as rowdy as Ondolemar had assumed. People stood at the bar in the center ordering drinks and food. Tables were set up throughout the establishment, each nearly filled with people from various walks of Markarth life - miners from the mines outside the gate, off duty guards and merchants from around town.

“Welcome, welcome,” a voice politely calls out from behind the bar.

All eyes turn to the three Altmer as they enter the inn. Ondolemar instantly grimaces wondering if he can go anywhere in Markarth without suffering the stares of the locals. Aria playfully nudges him with her elbow, smiling, hoping it would remove the scowl from his face. He takes the hint and forces a smile.

Alaric nods a greeting to Kleppr, the innkeeper, then points to a group on the left side of the room where Marcurio, Vorstag, and Jenassa are sitting at a rectangular table with Faleen, Aicantar, and two other people. The group stands as Kleppr and his son, Hreinn approach carrying a small square table to slide in for the additions to their party.

“I was beginning to think you weren't coming,” the unfamiliar woman says smiling at Alaric as everyone else sits.

“We were convincing this guy to join us,” Alaric smirks, nodding toward Ondolemar. Alaric proceeds to introduce the woman, Margret, to Ondolemar.

“This is Argis,” Alaric points toward the gruff looking Nord.

“Makela's steward,” Aria happily adds.

“Oh! The man that makes the veal dishes.” Ondolemar reaches to shake Argis’ hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Argis looks the High Elf up and down as if sizing him up. Ondolemar stands quietly, allowing Makela's friend to draw his own opinion. They eye each other skeptically when Argis is done with his appraisal. “Do I meet your approval?” Ondolemar sarcastically but graciously questions.

“Whatever makes her happy,” Argis snorts and shakes Ondolemar's hand. “If her happiness is not part of your agenda, walk away.” He sits next to Jenassa after offering his warning.

“I'll take that under advisement.” Ondolemar takes the seat next to Marcurio. After taking another look around the room, he observes the people at the table. Everyone seems to be coupled up. Alaric is sitting with Margret, who has the most insipid lovesick look on her face. To their right, Aria is huddled with Aicantar. When they're not staring at each other like new lovers, they're both lustfully eyeballing Hroki, as she serves drinks. Ondolemar cringes trying not to imagine where their night is going to end. Estormo would be proud. Across from them, Jenassa and Argis are chatting about their day. He notices the comfort in their conversation and how they're eating off each other's plate. To Marcurio's right, Faleen and Vorstag are chuckling at a joke that was apparently meant for their ears only. The look of displeasure on Marcurio's face is hard to miss. He wonders to himself whether he's witnessing one of those love triangles Aria talks about from her romance stories.

“Where's your companion?” He asks Marcurio, curiosity getting the better of him.

“In Falkreath Hold,” Marcurio politely replies, before taking a drink of Black-Briar Reserve. He turns his attention to Ondolemar. “Where's yours?”

“On her way here with Gunnar,” Aria chortles, an impish grin spreading across her face.

“What?!” Marcurio, Janessa, Vorstag, and Argis all seem shocked.

It doesn't go unnoticed by Ondolemar that a stone-faced Faleen is the only person in Makela's group that appears unmoved by this news. “Didn't you know?” Ondolemar inquires, looking around the table. “I suspected that was one of the reasons you all were here.”

“Makela hasn't spoken to any of us since this afternoon,” Marcurio pensively admits, taking another sip of his drink. “She's avoiding us.”

“Why?” Ondolemar sits up wondering why Makela would avoid the people closest to her. From the corner of his eye, he sees Marcurio briefly glare at Vorstag and Faleen.

“She was … sad and wanted to be alone,” Marcurio replies.

“Why?”

“I'd like to know that myself,” a perplexed Vorstag chimes in, looking between Marcurio and Faleen. Marcurio scoffs when Faleen shrugs.

“Makela has some things she needs to work through on her own,” Marcurio tensely remarks. “Let's just leave it at that, for now.”

“As you wish.” Ondolemar signals for Hroki's attention then orders wine and ale for the table. Asking further questions would probably ruin the evening. After all, he hadn't come to pry into Makela's family affairs.

Laughter and conversation flow as easily as the drinks amongst the group. Ondolemar is surprisingly relaxed with everyone which makes Aria proud. Alaric knows the stuffy elitist they know, and love is still lurking under the surface, but he chooses to enjoy the moment. After a few more sips of wine and feeling relaxed, Ondolemar leans back in his seat and turns to Marcurio. “Why will your family disown Makela if she becomes my mistress?” The now tipsy Thalmor casually inquires.

Surprised by the question, Argis nearly chokes on his ale. Alaric shakes his head, laughing that Ondolemar is still harping on that. Aria immediately gets Frabbi's attention and orders food for Ondolemar. She’d forgotten about his angry drinking back at Understone Keep. Now she needed to get him sober before he puts his foot further in his mouth.

“Who told you that?” Marcurio, Vorstag, and Jenassa ask in unison, slamming their drinks on the table.

“That ridiculous guard,” Ondolemar flippantly replies slouching deeper into his chair. “Gunnar.” From the corner of his eyes he sees Faleen leaning back with an odd smirk; as if she knows something and doesn't plan to share.

“Is he drunk?” Jenassa asks, surprised by his behavior.

“Of course not,” he replies haughtily. “I don't get drunk. He lifts his goblet to take another drink. Aria quickly takes it as Frabbi places a plate of chicken, potatoes, and bread in front of him. “I didn't ask for this.” He starts pushing the plate away.

“Eat!” Aria growls.

Ondolemar looks at her as if she's lost her mind but proceeds to cut his chicken breast and eat. He turns to Marcurio waiting for an answer to his question.

“Although I doubt Makela would ever agree to be your mistress, my family wouldn't disown her for it.” Marcurio laces his fingers together and grins as Ondolemar tries to mask his relief by biting another piece of chicken. “Becoming your wife … that would be a different story.”

“Why is that?” Ondolemar sets down his fork and focuses on Marcurio.

“What would be the benefit?” Something in his voice changes. He no longer sounds like Makela's whimsical, overprotective cousin.

“Benefit?” Ondolemar starts looking around the table for his wine. He's annoyed when Aria pushes a cup of water in front of him.

Suddenly exuding Imperial elitism, Marcurio sighs and sits up leaning toward the curious elf. “How would marrying you benefit Makela or our family?”

“Benefit your family?! Is marriage some sort of transaction for monetary or political gain?”

“Come now, Ondolemar, you're aware of how this game is played.” Marcurio comments, knowing many Altmer use the same practices when it comes to marriage.

“Makela doesn't strike me as the type to enter a political marriage.”

“That should explain why she's never been married.”

“Is that so?” Intrigued, Ondolemar chews on a piece of potato in deep thought.

“It's not for a lack of effort from our grandmothers.” After quietly observing the conversation, Faleen decides to join. “They've introduced Makela to four potential suitors. She's turned down three.”

“And the fourth?” Ondolemar inquires.

“For Grandmother's sake, she tried to give him a chance. He had everything going for him that made him the perfect match, but she liked him less than the others.” Marcurio reluctantly answers, not sure how much of Makela's story they should be sharing. “To be honest, she practically hated him. She'd planned to send him on his way before coming to Skyrim, but she went missing and ended up nearly losing her head before she had the chance.”

“And now…?”

“She doesn't remember him, so we don't bring him up,” Marcurio replies before Ondolemar could finish his question. He signals for Hroki to bring him another bottle of Black-Briar Reserve.

An air of solemnity settles over the table, forcing Marcurio to lighten the mood again. “But now …she gushes over you like a teenage girl.” Marcurio playfully jabs Ondolemar. “And you appear to be in the market for a mistress.” Everyone laughs. “I hope you like them clumsy and hardheaded.”

Ondolemar joins the laughter, appreciating the fact that making a joke at his expense is Marcurio's way of making him feel included.

“Welcome, welcome,” Kleppr calls out as the door opens and closes. Everyone at the table looks up to see Makela standing at the door with Gunnar smiling at her side.

Ondolemar's first instinct is to wipe that self-satisfied grin off Gunnar's smug face, but one look at Makela adds to his list of reasons to hate the simple-minded guard. She's dressed in a simple light blue dress - three-quarter sleeves, fitted at the waist, with a rounded neckline that shows off nothing more than her collarbone. But to him, she looks magnificent.

There's something different about her, but he's not sure what. Her hair is loosely pulled into a single braid with a curly bang instead of her normal bun. It's pretty, but that isn't it. She's not wearing any jewelry or makeup. What is it?

“Damn, she looks pretty in that dress,” Aria remarks in a strange delight. Alaric quickly elbows her. “What?! Look at her. Blue is her color. Well so is black. She always looks good in that black leather armor” Aria continues. Alaric elbows her again. “Stop hitting me.” She yells, rubbing her own elbow.

Ignoring Aria’s outburst, Ondolemar continues to stare at Makela.

Makela scans the room, then pauses when she hears a yelp from her left. She chuckles when she sees Alaric elbowing Aria a second time. Looking across the table she smiles watching the Thalmor guards spending time with her friends. Her smile wanes when she sees Faleen, who's leaning against Vorstag laughing.

Vorstag and Ondolemar observe the immediate change. Both look to Faleen for answers but get nothing except another shrug.

Makela's smile returns when she meets Marcurio's eyes. He winks and nods to his left. Her mouth drops when she finally notices Ondolemar sitting at the table. “What is he doing here?” she mumbles to herself while smoothing out the invisible wrinkles in her dress. Of all the days to keep it simple. She may as well be wearing rusty iron armor. She grumbles to herself briefly self-conscious. She stares at Ondolemar, she gasps when she realizes he's casually dressed in a black linen tunic. Then she notices his hair is down - snow white, crinkled and curled from the braids and nearly touching his shoulders. “Sweet Mara why have you forsaken me,” she whispers to herself.

Ondolemar chuckles, reading her lips. Coming here may turn out to be a good idea after all.

“Are you okay, Makela?” Gunnar notices her sudden bashfulness.

“I'm fine. Thank you.” She responds briefly turning her attention to her companion. “Great.”

Gunnar notices the table full of Makela's friends, then makes eye contact with Ondolemar. Squaring his shoulders, he nods at the Thalmor, who in turn confidently leans into his seat and raises his goblet to the couple.

Gunnar quickly takes Makela's hand. “Should we go say ‘hello,’” he questions still eyeing Ondolemar.

Confused, Makela’s eyes snap to her hand in his. “No,” she replies, patiently waiting for him to remove his hand from hers. He doesn't. She looks at him then follows his eyes to Ondolemar. “Oh! A pissing competition,” she whispers to herself.

“Pardon me,” Gunnar tries to get her to repeat herself, but she's already removed her hand from his and is walking toward a table in the back away from everyone. She sits at an angle where she can see Ondolemar.

“Are you sure you're okay?” Gunnar inquires, sitting across from her.

“I am … I've been looking forward to this all day.” She smiles through her lie, hoping he doesn't notice. Gunnar is a good guy, but he never really had a chance with her. And now that he seems to be treating her as if she's some trophy to be won in a competition with Ondolemar, she's completely turned off. However, she won't let this incident ruin the night.

Forty-five minutes into dinner, Makela allows herself to enjoy Gunnar's company. The salmon and Falkreath Rosy mead were as good as Gunnar had raved. She'll have to remember that for the days Argis makes veal. The conversation, though trivial, staves off potential boredom and keeps Makela from wondering about the person she'd rather be sitting with. Despite having a reasonably good time, periodically, her eyes wander to the other table, when she thinks Gunnar isn't paying attention; which is quite often. Each time Ondolemar's eyes are on her as if he's waiting for her to look his direction. She could stare into his beautiful green eyes all night. Unfortunately, Gunnar keeps blocking her view with his head. Therefore, she's forced to try to keep her focus on the man she chose as tonight’s companion.

While chatting, Makela learns about Gunnar's childhood home in Karthwasten, his desire to become the Jarl's steward, and his budding friendship with Ondolemar. She was bothered by his need to bring up the object of her desire while they were together. Was he trying to test her? Could he be that foolish? It didn't matter, this would be the last time she would have dinner with him unless it was part of a group outing.

The conversations dragged for what felt like an eternity. Except for a few questions about being Dragonborn, Gunnar never once asked her about her life. Makela found him to be boring and a selfish conversationalist. That worked for her because she didn’t have to feel guilty for wishing she was with Ondolemar at this moment.

Just as they were starting another inane conversation about silver mines, a guard rushes in and pulls Gunnar outside. Relieved, she slumps her shoulders and takes a gulp of the second glass of Falkreath Rosy mead, she'd been nursing for the past 15 minutes. When she looks up, Ondolemar is staring at her. The intense look of longing and confusion on his face sends a chill down her spine. Mesmerized, she stares back, never breaking eye contact. For a few moments, it seems like he's the only other person in the room.

“Makela!” A voice calls out to her. “Makela!” A hand touches her shoulder, startling her. She looks up to see Gunnar at her side.

“Gunnar?” She looks to see Ondolemar smiling at her. She glares at him before giving Gunnar her full attention. “What's up? Do you want another mead?”

Gunnar gives her an apologetic smile. “I'm sorry, I have to leave.”

“Leave?” She feigns concern, though she's slightly relieved. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes. A few guards are going to Karthwasten for duty for a few weeks. They asked if I'd like to go. You know, since my Ma is there.”

“Oh!” She raises a quizzical eyebrow. “That's odd. So, are you leaving tonight?”

“No. First thing in the morning. But I need to pack and get prepared for the journey.”

“Of course.” Makela stands to leave. She looks over at Ondolemar, who is watching intently, then back to Gunnar. “Okay. Shall we go.”

Gunnar looks surprised. “Don't you want to join your friends? I mean, you were kind of distracted by them throughout the night.”

“Oh!” She feels a small twinge of guilt. “I apologize for not giving you my full attention.”

“Oh, no. That's not what I meant.”

Makela holds up her hand to silence him. “I came with you; I'll leave with you.” She smiles politely at him. “Let's go.”

“Okay. I'll walk you home.” He walks ahead of Makela toward the door.

Before leaving, she smiles and nods at Ondolemar.

After the door closes behind Makela, Ondolemar, furious and baffled, drops his napkin on the table and stands.

“Don't rush to leave,” Marcurio calmly advises. “She'll be back.”

“She left with him,” Ondolemar responds through gritted teeth.

“She came with him,” Marcurio reminds the angry Thalmor. “She's going to properly finish the date. Sit down. She'll be back.”

“Date?!” Ondolemar struggles with the thought that anyone considers that a date. It was nothing more than a gesture of kindness from the Dragonborn to one of her fans. That's more logical. He takes a deep breath then sits. He chats with everyone for a while, periodically watching the door.

“She'll be here.” Marcurio tries to reassure him.

“She's probably changing dresses,” Faleen adds with a silly giggle.

“Why would she do that?” Ondolemar gives her a befuddled look.

“She dressed down for Gunnar. She'll want to dress up for you.”

Ondolemar remains confused. Why would she do something so ridiculous?

“No, no.” Marcurio jumps in. “This is Makela. She wouldn't change clothes. She'd think he'd think she was desperate.”

Ondolemar nods acknowledging that he probably would.

“After a proper goodbye to Gunnar, she'd wait long enough to make sure he wasn't lingering nearby, then she'd take off running back here.” Marcurio looks at everyone to make sure they see where he's leading them. “Makela, who rarely wears dresses, is running down… what, three flights of steps.” He pulls five gold coins from his pocket and sets them on the center of the table. “She's clumsy. She tripped running back here and she needs some time to heal her injury.”

“That's a good one,” Vorstag laughingly comments, placing five gold coins of his own with Marcurio's. “But I think she's playing hard-to-get and plans to make an entrance.”

Jenassa adds her five to the table. “She's weighing he anger with…” She pointedly looks at Faleen. “...us versus her desire to spend time with Ondolemar. She's out there talking herself into coming.”

“Do you always make wagers at Makela’s expense?” Ondolemar looks at the small pile of gold then at the laughing trio.

“Yes!” Marcurio answers matter-of-factly, pushing a cup of coffee toward the Thalmor. “You're going to need to sober up. She takes words and actions to heart. You don't want to say the wrong thing.”

“No, you don't,” Vorstag adds in a stern voice of warning.

“You really don’t.” Argis brusquely chimes in.

Ondolemar eyes the three men. “You are an overprotective bunch.” He also notices the grimace on Faleen's as she leans away from Vorstag for the first time all night. He stares at her suspiciously before looking at Marcurio.

“Or, we love my cousin and don't want to see her hurt ever again.”

“Who hurt…” Ondolemar stops himself. Sitting quietly a few moments it dawns on him that he’s spent well over an hour laughing and chatting with Makela’s friends and family. He feels at ease with them. Oddly, he’s never allowed himself this level of comfort with his Thalmor counterparts; not even the ones that claim to be his friends. He’s not sure he wants this… Maybe he does, but he believes he shouldn’t. His mind recalls the strange tension between Makela and Faleen. He wonders what is going on and how it involves Vorstag. Is Makela jealous? Does she like him, too? No. He immediately quells that feeling. He doesn't know why, but he's sure Makela doesn't have romantic feelings for Vorstag. But there's an emotional whirlwind brewing amongst this group and he wants no part of it. He suddenly stands to leave. The evening was enjoyable, but not enough to change his mind about not pursuing Makela.

“Wait! Where are you going?” Marcurio looks up at him puzzled. “She’s coming back.”

“I’m sure she is.” He looks at Aria and Alaric. “I’ve achieved what I came for.” He then turns to Marcurio and Vorstag. “And I can’t promise I won’t say the wrong thing.”

“She likes you.” Marcurio’s eyes darken. “If you walk away, she will not follow.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He nods at everyone and exits the inn.

Marcurio slams his hands on the table, “That son-of-a-bitch!” He knows the Thalmor can't give Makela what she needs but he wanted to give him a chance.

Alaric and Aria both apologize for their boss, preparing to leave.  Marcurio assures them it’s not necessary and asks them to stay.

Uncomfortable silence still hovers over the table when Makela burst into the door still healing a fresh wound on her forearm. She confidently squares her shoulders, holding her head up commanding attention from everyone in the room. “You can do this,” She murmurs to herself. She immediately spots the empty chair where Ondolemar was seated. “He left?”

Marcurio eyes shift to his approaching cousin, noticing her disappointment. “Makela.”

“Marcurio.”

“I told him you were coming back”

Makela shrugs and smiles warily. “It’s fine.” She knows she shouldn’t feel hurt, but she does. However, her Antonius pride will not give Ondolemar the satisfaction of showing any emotion. Plus, it wouldn't change anything. _“Get on task.”_ Her father's voice echoes in her head. Get on task. Her infatuation with Ondolemar is not part of her reason for being in Skyrim. She takes a calming breath and decides to push aside her feelings for a while. Dragons and everyone else that wants to kill her aren't going to wait for her to deal with a crush.

“Did you forget you were wearing a dress and accidentally caught your foot on the hem while running down the steps?” Making light of the situation is the only thing keeping him from going to Understone Keep and knocking the Altmer on his ass.

Makela immediately flashes back to the tumble she took down the steps near the marketplace, then glares at her cousin. “Be quiet!”

“That’s strangely detailed,” Aria remarks to Marcurio.

Marcurio laughs and hands Makela a handkerchief to wipe away any blood on her arm. “Will you join us?”

Her eyes shift to Faleen and Vorstag, then back to Marcurio. “No.” Spotting the gold on the table she looks over the three usual suspects. Another wager at her expense. Her eyes land on Marcurio, raising a curious eyebrow. “Who won?”

“Judging from the healing scrapes on your arm, I’d say I did.” Marcurio's playful smile is annoying.

“Is that right?” Makela grins, scoops up the gold.  “Well, then my drink is on you.” She then turns to leave.

“Makela, if it’s any consolation, the jackass was jealous and frustrated the entire time,” Aria reassures, with her signature mischievous smile.

Makela beams but there is a noticeable coldness in her eyes. “It does.” She approaches the bar. “Kleppr.”

“Ah, lovely Makela. What can I do for you?”

“May I have a coffee with a little moon sugar and milk.”

“Moon sugar and milk?!” A disapproving deep voice comes from over Makela’s shoulder.

She turns to see a man dressed in a black mages’ robe; the same man from Dawnstar. “You get around.”

“As do you, lovely Makela.” He nods toward Kleppr. “That is what the gentleman called you, correct?” He slides onto the empty stool next to her. He appraises her solemn face. “The evening didn’t turn out as you expected?”

She closes her eyes, rolling them internally, willing herself to be polite. “I had no expectations for the evening.” Her reply is courteous and sweet. There’s something about this man that makes her uncomfortable, so she doesn’t want to push him. He knows her name. He was there when she was drugged and kidnapped by the Dark Brotherhood. Plus, he’s capable of creeping up without her feeling his presence. Makela notices that he’s unusually tall for a human. Not quite as tall as the average Altmer, but taller than most Nords or Redguards. His build is broad; no different than Vorstag or Argis’, but that combined with his height and indescribable aura makes him a tad intimidating. Makela has fought her fair share of brawny men, but this man is more than a simple warrior. Will she be able to take him?

“Perhaps not. You spent the evening with one man while watching another, then the one you wanted to be with left.” He laughs to himself, before drinking some wine straight from the bottle. “For anyone else, that would have been quite the blow to the ego. But you...”

She stays silent keeping her eyes on Kleppr. Inwardly sighing, trying not to show any reaction to the strange man.

“He likes you.” The man adds. “The Altmer,” he clarifies.

“I know.” She takes a sip of the coffee Kleppr has just handed her. The warm liquid eases some of her anxiety.

“But he’ll be slow to admit it. He’ll admit it, mind you, but he’ll take his time.”

Makela mulls over his words while thinking about the fact that time may not be on her side. She was never blessed with the virtue of patience, now she must consider the number of entities that want her dead. She can’t wait for Ondolemar to come to terms with the fact that she’s not an Altmer.

“The Nord on the other hand.” The man interrupts her thoughts. “He thinks he knows your secrets.”

“Secrets?”

Leaning closer, the man smiles knowingly. “When your cousins are huddled with the Jarl, discussing family business, they should make sure prying eyes aren’t lurking in the halls eavesdropping. Especially if the Dragonborn is not ready for the people of Skyrim to know her identity.”

A rush of uneasiness surges through Makela, however, she remains expressionless. She can't afford to let this man get to her.

“Unmoved. I like that. You do your father and the legion proud.” He points his bottle toward her. “Do you still not partake?” A wicked smile crosses his face.

“Who are you? How do you know me?” She clenches her teeth to keep from showing fear or anger.

“Makela!”

She turns to see Marcurio walking to the door.

“Let’s go. We’ll walk home together.”

Still shaken from the man’s words she stares blankly at him.

“Makela! Did you hear me?”

“Yes. Okay.” Before leaving she turns back to the man. She needs answers to her questions, but he’s no longer there.

“Be sure to get some sleep, lovely Makela,” the man whispers from the other side.

She quickly whips around only to see Marcurio impatiently standing by the door. The man is gone. Disappeared into thin air, just like the night at the Windpeak Inn. She searches the room for him, but he's nowhere to be seen. Makela heaves a worried sigh, then follows Marcurio out the door.

On the short walk back to Vlindrel Hall, she keeps a watchful eye out for the stranger. Marcurio senses her despair. Believing it's caused by Ondolemar, he curses the Altmer under his breath.


	11. Chapter 11

_Leki slowly backs away from Jarl Balgruuf, smiling. “Well, I've done what Alvor requested of me.” She turns on her heel. “You have your warning. Best of luck to you.” She politely waves goodbye as she walks away._

_“Wait! Where are you going?” The Jarl yells from behind her._

_"_ _Well,” she pauses and places a finger on her chin in thought. “I was invited to join the Companions, but I don't see how that would protect me from that dragon.” She turns back to Jarl Balgruuf, eyes bright with an oddly wide smile; considering the news she's just delivered. “I'm going as far away from Skyrim as I can.” She starts to leave again. “This country has not been the best place for me.”_

_“Hold on!” Jarl Balgruuf yells after her. “What if you're right and a dragon is coming toward Whiterun?”_

_“I am right,” she replies in a less playful tone. “A dragon is on the way. You should prepare your guards.”_

_“Perhaps you can help us.” He responds trying to sound in control of his sudden fear._

_“Perhaps.” Leki faces the Jarl._

“You never could resist trying to save everyone, Makela,” the now familiar deep voice whispers. “You should concentrate on saving yourself.”

Makela's eyes fly open as she bangs her head on the wall of the carriage. She curses herself for dozing off then looks around hoping to see the owner of the voice. Instead, she sees she's alone inside the carriage. Marcurio is outside driving. Vorstag and Jenassa are in a separate carriage. Knowing Makela would need an alternate exit to escape from the Thalmor Embassy, they went out ahead and scouted the area. They'll wait there while Marcurio waits at the front, in case he's needed.

“Are you okay back there?” Marcurio asks, after hearing Makela rustling around.

“Yes.” She keeps her eyes on him as she quietly reaches into her pack for a bottle of stamina potion. After a quick swig, she places the bottle back in the bag.

Sinking into her seat, she thinks about the past several days. Ondolemar leaving before she returned to the Silver-Blood Inn bruised her ego; however, it was the strange man that gave her concern. A couple of hours after that encounter, Makela and her team decided to leave Markarth early. She felt it would be better to go elsewhere to prepare for infiltrating the Thalmor Embassy rather than staying around constantly looking over her shoulder.

It wasn’t long after leaving before Makela and Vorstag got back on track. Although he remained confused to the reason Makela was distant with him and angry with Faleen, he chose not to push her on the subject. He felt she’d talk to him when she was ready. Unfortunately, aside from a gut feeling Faleen knows who was involved in her disappearance, Makela is herself confused about her anger toward them.

Snow, snow, and more snow. Makela sighs deeply and stares outside the carriage. “They could’ve set up their embassy in Falkreath Hold or someplace with less snow,” Makela mumbles to herself, rolling her eyes.

Marcurio turns to Makela. “Okay Makela, what’s the plan on getting away from the party?”

Before stepping out the carriage, Makela turns to her cousin baffled by his question.

He knows that lost-lamb look on her face, and he’s never liked it. “Shit Makela, you have a plan, right?”

Again, she stares blankly at him before a wry grin crosses her face. “I plan to wing it,”

“Wing it?!” Concerned about Makela’s nonchalant attitude. Marcurio runs his fingers through his hair. “Makela, you’re entering a Thalmor compound alone and you have no real plan.”

“Yeah!” Her eyes sparkle in response.

Marcurio drops back in his seat exasperated. “And you're a Legate in the Imperial Legion,” he mutters loud enough for her to hear.

“And so are you, big shot,” she snaps. “Where’s your plan?”

“I’m not the one going in alone.” He snipes back.

“Exactly!” She takes a long deep breath. “It’s not like Delphine gave me a layout of the place or a guest list. I have to figure this out when I get in there.” She pulls a piece of paper from her handbag. “I have this basic drawing of the buildings Vorstag and Jenassa left at the post a few miles back. I'll use it as a starting point and go from there.”

Marcurio takes a few seconds to calm himself and thank Julianos that Vorstag had the good sense to leave that drawing and a few supplies in a knapsack at a designated post on the road to the Thalmor Embassy. He looks at Makela then smiles, agreeing with her plan to wing it. “Fine. Just be careful.”

“Always.”

“No! Not always.” He reminds her. “Give it a try this time.”

Makela grins at her cousin, pulls up the hood on her cloak, then walks toward the entrance.

“Keep a low profile,” Marcurio advises as she walks away.

“Makela! Makela Antonius!” A voice calls out to her. An inebriated Redguard approaches her. “I thought that was you,” he comments. “What are you doing here?”

“Razelan?” Makela responds to the man she recognizes as someone from the East Empire Company; a merchant her grandfather deals with on occasion. Taking a quick look over her shoulder, she sees an increasingly frustrated Marcurio putting his face in his hands groaning. She looks back to her new companion. “What brings you here?”

“I was just about to ask you the same.” He sidles up to her as they approach a Thalmor guard checking invitations. “How’s your family? It’s been a while since I visited the Mokon…”

“I hear the Thalmor have a love for good Colovian Brandy.” She interrupts the drunken man, looping her arm in his. “I do hope you join me for a taste.”

“Colovian Brandy!” Razelan perks up. “You bet your pretty little…” Probably remembering he’s talking to the granddaughter of one of his oldest business associates; he quickly changes his tone. “Oh, of course. I’d be glad to join you for a glass of brandy.”

“Wonderful.”

They both hand their invitations to the guard and enter the Thalmor Embassy.

Once inside, relief washes over Makela as Razelan immediately breaks away from her, heading straight for the bar. He promises to meet with her later to try the brandy. Free of the drunken man, she quickly scans the room. As she takes in the large banquet area, she spots a few familiar faces. Erikur is to her left harassing a server, a Bosmer woman. Makela wonders if she'll have to step in and help the woman. Maven Black-Briar sits with Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone chatting. An odd pair, but not surprising. She chuckles to herself and continues looking around.

Finishing her preliminary observation, Makela shrugs off her cloak and starts for the bar. Two steps in, she's greeted by a Thalmor; a regal woman with a menacing yet pleasant smile. Impressive smile aside, Makela doesn't like the aura around this woman. Malevolence oozed around her being causing Makela to shudder from her presence.

“Welcome.” The woman reaches to shake Makela's hand. “I'm Elenwen, the Thalmor Ambassador and the hostess of this magnificent party. I don't believe we've met.”

_“Hmm, this one has quite the ego.”_ Makela takes Elenwen's hand in a strong grip, smiling brightly. “It is a pleasure to meet you Elenwen. I'm Makela.” She takes in the room once again, admiring the various flowers and decorations. “This seems like a lovely party.”

“I know. Thank you.” Elenwen beams before becoming serious. “I recognize your name from the guest list but, I don't recall having the pleasure of meeting you. How long have you been in Skyrim?”

Makela gives the ambassador a curious look. “Do you know all the citizens of Skyrim?” She asks sarcastically. Her smile widens when she notices Elenwen's eyes narrowing.

“Of course not.” Elenwen covers her sudden irritation. “However, I know many nobles of Skyrim. Are you a noble? You must be, to have received an invitation to this party.” She sneers satisfied believing her new guest is nothing more than an interloper that's been caught.

“I …”

“You’re here!” A voice yelps over Elenwen’s shoulder. “I’ve been hoping to see you for what feels like ages.” The approaching male Thalmor takes Makela’s hand kissing it. “How have you been?”

Makela looks at the Altmer, confused but she also recognizes something about him.

“Estormo! You’re interrupting us.” Elenwen shrieks. “Leave us be.”

“Estormo?!” Makela finally recognizes him. “Labyrinthian, right?”

“Yes, my love. “He grins, feeling vindicated that she recognized him. “I knew you’d remember.” He pulls her closer to him, leading her away from Elenwen. Makela gives the ambassador an apologetic smile as she follows Estormo to a table in the corner. After they sit, Makela finally gets a good look at him. A few bruises mar his handsome face, which surprises her. She can’t imagine Thalmor, of all people, walking around with bruises on their faces. It goes against their persona of perfection.

“What happened to your face?”

Estormo puts his finger to the bruise near his right eye. “Your dremora.”

“Dremora Valkynaz did that?” Makela thinks back on the incident. “It’s been quite some time. Why haven’t you healed your face?”

“It’s a reminder of you.”

“A reminder of me?” She gives him a disapproving look. “Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t hit you in the face.”

“No, but the dremora you command did.”

Makela chuckles imagining herself trying to command a dremora. “I don’t command dremoras, they have free will.” Makela stands from her seat and moves in front of him. “If I gave Dremora Valkynaz an order, he’d probably laugh at me then disappear back to Oblivion.” She leans closer to his face and proceeds to heal his bruises. “I can’t imagine Elenwen or the other Thalmor are pleased with you walking around all bruised up.”

Estormo rests his hand on her hip grinning. “Having you heal my face was worth the sneers.”

She removes his hand, graciously smiling back at him. “I’m glad I could help.”

He sets his other hand on her hip, looking up at her. “I’m attracted to you and I’d like to get to know you better.”

“Is that so?” Makela watches as the bruises clear up. She replays their only encounter in her head. He demanded the Staff of Magnus. She hit him with it, conjured Dremora Valkynaz, then ran out laughing. What was attractive about that? Shaking her head, she lifts his hand, holding it away from her body.

Across the room, Ondolemar is chatting with Ancarion. The conversation is interrupted when Alaric elbows him and points to Makela lifting Estormo’s hand from her hip. He immediately frowns. _What is she doing here?_ He storms to the table, muttering several curse words to himself, followed by Alaric, Aria, and Ancarion. In the short walk over, he witnesses Estormo rest his hands on Makela’s hip two more times. Each time she politely frees herself from the handsy Thalmor. Just as Estormo makes his third attempt, Ondolemar quietly stops behind Makela. “Ahem!”

Startled, Makela swings around bumping into his chest. “Damn. How did I not feel him approach me?” she whispers to herself. She looks up to see him glaring past her.

“Ondolemar.” Estormo’s eyes brighten. “Look! I’ve found my lover.”

“Lover?!” Makela’s eyes widen and she turns to Estormo.

“Mistress?” He puts his thumb on his chin thinking. “I thought it would be too forward to refer to you as my mistress.” He looks to her, eyes gleaming. “Is it not?”

Makela stands quietly processing the strange Thalmor’s words. _Keep a low profile. Cause a distraction. Slip in the back and retrieve the documents. That’s all I had to do._ She turns back to Ondolemar with a confused look.

“Excuse us.” Ondolemar takes Makela’s hand. There’s an instant spark when their hands touch. He ignores it and leads her out the main entrance of the embassy.

Five seconds outside and Makela is already regretting leaving her cloak with Malborn. It is entirely too cold to be standing outside for a chat or for a potential scolding. _Did he bring me out here to scold me? He had better not have._

What are you doing here?” Ondolemar asks, bewildered and suddenly bashful.

“I’m a guest.” She smiles up at the handsome Altmer. Dressed in his Thalmor uniform minus his hood. She tries not to stare at his hair, which is faded on the sides and back while the top is pulled into a single braid that ends just below the nape of his neck. _“Sweet Mara. What is it with him and his hair? Good grief I want to hate him so much.”_ She thinks to herself.

“I surmised that, Makela. Are you here as Jarl Igmund’s companion?” He asked even though he hoped she wasn’t. He looked down at her taking in her outfit. She wasn’t dressed in armor as she’d normally wear, nor was she dressed in a simple maiden’s dress like the one she’d worn to the Silver-Blood Inn. Instead. she was wearing a midnight blue mage robe with silver ornate embroidery and trim. _How does she look so pretty in everything?_ Around her neck, she wore a silver amulet of magicka with an intricate design and a name engraved on it. He couldn’t make out the name. He wanted to get closer to read it, but he didn’t want her or anyone else to get the wrong idea. “To Oblivion with it,” he blurted lifting the amulet and leaning down closer to read it.

Makela gasps at his sudden boldness.

“Savos Aren. Who is that?” He asked looking in her eyes, his face close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath.

Wordless echoes bounce inside the now empty void of her mind as she blankly stares at him. It takes a heartbeat or two before his question finally reaches her brain. “He … he’s the former Archmage of the College of Winterhold,” she answers nervously.

“Why do you have his amulet?” A hint of jealousy is in his voice.

“It was a gift.”

“A gift!” A twinge of jealousy twists at Ondolemar’s heart causing him to lean a bit closer to her face. “Why would he give you his amulet?”

Makela pauses, narrowing her eyes, trying to figure out why he’s questioning her. She looks into his bright green eyes, trying to suppress the shiver crawling down her back. “Because he’s dead and I’m the new Archmage.”

“You’re the Archmage?” His eyes widen in surprise. _“Of course, she is.”_ He thinks to himself. Knowing how much she’s loved in Markarth, it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to find that people in other towns love her just as much.

“What’s so shocking?” She asks unimpressed by his look of astonishment. “I am a mage.”

“Yes. I know.” A somber response is all he can manage. He never would have guessed she was good enough at magicka to become an Archmage.

Exasperated she grabs his hand to remove it from her amulet. The powerful spark that comes from her surprises them both and they quickly snatch away from each other. For several minutes they gaze at each other without uttering a word.

“I’m sorry.” Ondolemar finally breaks the silence.

“It was just a spark. It didn’t hurt.” She responds not understanding the reason for his apology.

“For leaving the Silver-Blood Inn.” He corrects, averting his gaze.

She stares down at the snow beneath her for a few seconds then looks up at him. “It’s fine. I understand.”

“I don’t,” he replies, eyes filled with confused honesty. “But I want to.”

Makela’s mind goes blank as she stares up at him. The cold air finally getting to her, she starts shivering. Noticing he decides to escort her back inside the building.

“Let’s get you warmed up.” Just as he takes her hand another spark crackles between them. Before she can pull away, he wraps his hand tightly around hers. She looks at their entwined hands then into his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

“We’re walking back in holding hands.”

“Yes!” His matter-of-fact reply should surprise her, but he’s been full of surprises in the last few minutes, so she goes with the flow. “We’ll stop and get you a cup of tea on the way back to the table.”

Makela feels like she’s been waiting forever for this moment. Under any other circumstance she’d be giddy as a new mother or floating around; but today… today her mind should be on her mission. It’s impossible for her to enjoy this moment. And who knows if he’ll be the same the next time she sees him in Markarth. He’s been hot and cold too long for her to have faith in this sudden change. But for now, she’ll enjoy a few moments before moving forward with her plan.

Back at the table, Razelan has joined the group. He and Estormo are laughing and discussing the best wines in the region. Razelan is partial to Alto Wine while Estormo prefers Spiced Wine. Makela and Ondolemar quietly sit and listen to the conversation. The drunken Redguard immediately notices her. “Makela, where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you,” he slurs.

“I’ve been around,’ she sweetly replies. “Perhaps we missed each other when you were wine tasting.”

Razelan stares at nothing, regarding her comment. “Perhaps, perhaps. It is possible. There are many fine wines here.”

“I’m sure.”

“What about you? Did you get to try the wonderful Colovian Brandy?”

“She doesn’t drink spirits,” Ondolemar interjects before she can answer.

_Okay!_ Makela stares at Ondolemar trying to figure out why he intervened.

“I thought so,” Razelan responds. “I recall you not being much of a drinker. I was surprised when you asked me to join you for a glass of brandy.”

Ondolemar looks at her surprised.

“I was going to have tea,” she quickly adds. “I knew Razelan would enjoy the brandy.”

“And you were right. It reminds me of the brandy your grandfather used to bring to the East Empire Company whenever he came up for business.” The old man leans back into his seat seeming to reminisce about something.

“East Empire Company?” Ondolemar turns to Makela. “What does your grandfather do?”

“He’s a merchant,” Makela replies coolly, hoping Razelan would shut up.

“Merchant?” Razelan perks up. “Saladin is more than a mere merchant.”

Makela can see Razelan is sitting up to tell some exciting story about the accomplishments of her grandfather. Unfortunately, this was not the time or place. “I’d like a sweet roll.” She quickly stands hoping to end the conversation.

“I’ll get it for you,” Ondolemar remarks.

She briefly looks at him like she doesn’t know him. _What is going on with you?_ She places a hand on his arm to stop him. “It’s fine. I’ll get it myself. Would you like something?”

“No.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.” She quickly leaves the table.

On the way to the buffet table, Elenwen sidles up to Makela. “How do you know him?” From the jealous look on the ambassador’s face, it’s apparent she’s been watching Makela while she was chatting with Ondolemar and the others.

“Um, Estormo?” Makela replies pretending to be confused. “I met him once, some time ago.”

“Not him,” Elenwen responds angrily. “Don’t play coy with me.”

Not up for more Thalmor nonsense, Makela stares at her waiting for a reasonable response.

“Ondolemar!”

“Oh! He works in Markarth at Understone Keep.” Makela looks over at Jarl Igmund then back to Elenwen. “I’ve bumped into him a couple of times,” She replies facing the Ambassador.  _Well, a few more times. I’ve lost count”_

“Stay away from him.” Elenwen orders through her clenched jaw. “He’s mine.”

Makela raises an eyebrow. “Okay.” She replies vacantly, walking away.

Alaric notices Elenwen grimacing at Makela’s retreating back and points it out to Ondolemar. He immediately frowns. He stands to check on Makela but Elenwen is already in front of him before he can move. “Can I have a moment? How are things in Markarth?” She loops her arm in his and walks him to another area in the room.

Makela has already enlisted the server, Brelas as a diversion. Now all she must do is find a way to distract Ondolemar, so she can slip into the kitchen. When she heads back to the table, she notices he is no longer there. Upset but relieved as well, she moves forward with her plan. Turning back to Brelas she nods to let her know the plan is starting. Makela walks to the table and sets a cup of brandy in front of Razelan. “It’s from Erikur,” she whispers before turning back to Brelas, who immediately slaps Erikur.

“I’ve had enough! You lecherous old pervert.” Brelas yells. “I quit.” She stalks off heading for the kitchen.

Before Erikur can recover from the shock and retaliate on the Bosmer, Razelan is spitting out his brandy and storming over to the Nord noble. “Erikur, you bastard! What in Oblivion is in that swill you just gave me?”

As a crowd forms around the two men, Makela dashes to the kitchen.

“It’s about time,” Malborn snarks. “Did you enjoy the party?”

“Do you enjoy your life?” Makela snaps. She quickly undresses handing her robe to Brelas “Put these on. Don’t forget my cloak.” Makela proceeds to put on the black armor she left with Malborn. Before pulling on a matching black cowl, she spreads black war paint across the top half of her face. Between the cowl covering her hair and mouth and the war paint, no one will recognize Makela, should she have to engage in some hand-to-hand combat.

After equipping her swords and bow. She makes sure all the arrows are covered in paralysis poison. Then she tells Malborn to take Brelas to the carriage and tell Marcurio to take the young woman to meet up with Vorstag and Jenassa. Before leaving Makela advises Brelas that she will be safe with Marcurio. She also reassures her that Erikhur will not come after her and she’s amongst friends. She pulls the cowl over the woman’s head and sends her off while the crowd is still distracted.

Waiting for Malborn to return, she drops a bag of gold in the hands of the cook. “If I get caught, you get caught. Enjoy your gold and be sure to keep your mouth shut.”

Malborn steps back in nodding, letting her know that Brelas is safe. At that, Makela crouches, shrouding herself in the shadows, easing out the opposite door.

The hall is quiet when two Thalmor guards enter an adjoining room. Slipping quietly into another room she patiently waits for the guards to finish their conversation and leave.

As soon as the hall is clear, making her way out the building goes off without a hitch. However, it's a different story outside. Makela eases around two Thalmor who are chatting in the courtyard. Another is standing near the door of the next building. Luckily, she's prepared for obstructions.

She pulls her bow and an arrow from her back. Under normal circumstances, she'd hit the Thalmor with an ice spike or an unrelenting force shout, but that would draw too much attention. She smiles to herself as the arrow whistles across the path landing in his shoulder. The shot won't kill him, but it'll keep him down long enough for her to finish her business and leave. Just before she enters the next building, Makela shoots the other two Thalmor. One can never be too careful.

Once inside, she overhears two men arguing. From their voices, she can tell one is a Nord and the other is a Thalmor. She listens for a few minutes, as one man mentions the Thieves Guild and the Ratway. She makes a mental note to warn Brynjolf. After the two men leave, getting through the rest of the building was easier than expected. Hiding in an empty office, Makela looked over the drawing Vorstag left her, trying to find the back exit.

With everything figured out, she makes her way to her escape then stops short. “Is that a torture chamber?” Looking through the doorway, she sees a Thalmor guard standing outside a cell, taunting a prisoner. Seeing red, she quickly puts two arrows in his side. Creeping into the torture chamber, she opens the cell, freeing the prisoner. After assuring the man she’s not there to hurt him, he tells her his name is Etienne. He also explains that he was knocked out outside the Thieves Guild by Gissur and brought to the embassy to be interrogated by Rulindil. He informs her the Thalmor are looking for a man named Esbern and the everything she needs to know is locked in a chest by the desk.

Afterward, Etienne points to a locked escape hatch leading out the embassy. Giving him a few lockpicks to try to open the hatch, she retrieves some documents for Delphine, from the chest. On her way back to help Etienne, she hears Malborn pleading with two other men. The Thalmor that was arguing with the Nord and a guard.

“Rulindil,” Etienne whispers. “We have to get out of here.”

Makela agrees, but she must save Malborn. After telling Etienne to hide, she slowly walks back up the steps. Rulindil and the guard are facing away from her, but Malborn’s face gives her away. Before the Thalmor can completely turn around, she shoots them both with arrows. Rulindil in the thigh, and the guard in the arm. Crouching down, she eases over and looks Rulindil in the eye, before going through the guard’s pockets to retrieve the keys to the hatch.

“I will kill you,” Rulindil threatens breathlessly.

“You will try,” Makela responds mockingly then pushes the arrow deeper into his thigh. She’ll probably regret not killing him. She turns to Malborn and punches him in the face. “Idiot! Don’t ever do that again.” She pushes Malborn toward the steps. “Let’s go.”

Halfway down the steps, she has second thoughts. “Wait!” She walks back up the steps with Malborn following closely. “Grab his legs.” They both lift Rulindil and carry him down the steps. When they reach the hatch, she tosses the keys to a wide-eyed Etienne, who immediately opens the door. Etienne drops down first, followed by Rulindil’s limp body, then Makela and Malborn. They are greeted by a snow troll that looks like it hasn’t eaten in days. Still not comfortable using a shout, Makela shoots the troll with four arrows then uses chain lightning to finish it off. Once the troll is dead, Makela sends Etienne and Malborn to meet Marcurio, Vorstag, and Jenassa.

Makela turns to Rulindil, then looks up at the hatch Malborn had closed on the way down. “Well, good day and good luck.” With that, she finally leaves. Off to meet Delphine in Riverwood before heading to Riften.

 ******

The crowd long dispersed, Ondolemar returns to the table looking for Makela. He scans the room wondering what happened to her. Before he can inquire about her whereabouts, Aria scolds him. Telling him Makela left after he walked away with Elenwen. Angry with the situation, he orders his guards to prepare to leave for Markarth. Off to the side, Ancarion curiously observes his friend’s unusual behavior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ondolemar doesn't seem like the type to get caught up in jealousy and affairs of the heart. However, I believe he'd step up if he had, what he felt was, legitimate competition. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

Several days after infiltrating the Thalmor Embassy, Etienne is back with the Thieves Guild, recuperating from his injuries. After briefing Brynjolf on Etienne's kidnapping and torture, the guild has increased their security measures. They've also put aside their oath not to kill; well Vex and Delvin have. If Gissur shows his face in the Ragged Flagon, the torture Etienne experienced will not compare to what the angry thieves have planned for the traitorous Nord.

After leaving the Thalmor Embassy, Makela and her group went straight to Riverwood. As expected, Delphine asked more of the Dragonborn. She believed given they were headed to Riften, anyway, why not stop and look for Esbern. Of course, Marcurio was not pleased with the request, but Makela opted to look for Delphine's former companion.

Leaving Malborn behind, the group immediately left. Delphine was not her favorite person, so there was no way she was willing to stay at the Sleeping Giant. Fortunately, Lakeview Manor was not far away. They spent the night there before continuing to Riften. Brelas stayed behind; everyone agreed she'd be safer there with Rayya until they were sure Erikur wasn’t a threat to the Bosmer.

Sitting on the shore of Lake Honrich, just outside Honeyside, Makela stares aimlessly across the large body of water. Lost in her thoughts, she sits quietly, not paying attention to her surroundings.

“What are you up to?” Marcurio asks, walking over from the house.

“Fishing,” she replies listlessly.

Marcurio stares down at her, sitting with her knees to her chest, holding a half-empty bottle of stamina potion, and no sign of fishing equipment anywhere near her. “Where are your pole and bait?”

Makela straightens her legs, looking around herself, then at her wet breeches. “Damn. I guess they washed away with the tide, again,” she replies blankly rubbing the back of her head. Standing up, she attempts to dust the mud off herself. “That's the third one, today.”

“Third!” Stunned Marcurio steps in front of her, taking the potion. “Makela, what’s going on?”

Makela looks at him with a silly grin across her face trying to placate his worries. “Nothing. I guess I lost my focus while I was daydreaming.” She waves off Marcurio's concerned look and starts walking back to Honeyside. “What are you up to?”

He follows up the steps of the porch, taking her cue to change the subject. “We're about to go to the Bee and Barb. Do you want to join us?”

Tired muscles aching, she stretches then sits on the porch step to stare across the lake again. The tranquility of Lake Honrich makes Honeyside one of her favorite places in Skyrim, unfortunately, Makela is not a huge fan of Riften. Her displeasure with the city is of her own doing, but it doesn't change her feelings.

“No. I think I'll stay in tonight.”

Leaning against the banister, Marcurio looks down at Makela then in the direction of Goldenglow Manor. Without asking, he knows what’s on her mind. “Makela, you weren't yourself when you did all those things,” he tries to reassure her.

Those things. Of all the things Makela has done before regaining her memories, harassing people on behalf of the Thieves Guild and Maven Black-Briar are the most regrettable. Although the things she's done for the Jarl and other citizens of Riften should make up for her bad deeds, she still feels a small amount of guilt.

Not long after Makela's negative encounters with the people that were indebted to the Thieves Guild, Marcurio went around with an apology, a bribe, and a threat. His mother would be so proud.

To Marcurio, Makela did nothing wrong. Those people owed a debt and she collected it.  But he knew she'd feel guilty once she regained her memories. So, he did what he thought was best for his cousin.

“Those things I did while I wasn't myself… did you report them to the family?” She asks the question already knowing the answer.

Marcurio sits quietly for a few seconds. “Yes.” He sits next to her. “You are a member of not one, but two prominent families in Tamriel. Of course, I told them." He watches Makela, intently. "Sooner or later people are going to make the connection between the Dragonborn and Makela Antonius. It's better to have the family prepared and ready to cover you.”

“So, they know I'm the Dragonborn? The family… they know?” Makela never takes her eyes off the lake.

Marcurio heaves a deep sigh. “You know they've always believed there was something special about you.” He puts a comforting arm around her. “At least you're not a Daedric Priestess, like Aunt Sabina predicted.”

Makela chuckles, elbowing him in the side.

“They should’ve heard about you being the Dragonborn from you. But you’re not in contact with them,” Marcurio chides his cousin.

Makela drops her head in shame. “What would I tell them?”

“That you’re alive and well.”

“You’re already telling them that.”

“Yes. But, wouldn’t it be nice for your mother and father to hear it from you.”

Makela knew Marcurio was right, but she finds it hard to keep in touch with her family. Not because she can’t find the time; there’s always a free moment here and there to sit down and write a note to her loved ones. However, she can’t find the words. How could she tell them about her recent experiences? How would she tell her father, a general in the Imperial Legion, that she was nearly executed by the very legion he’s dedicated most of his life? How does she tell her mother that she doesn’t remember the last conversation they had before leaving Cyrodiil? Deep down, Makela knows she’s overthinking everything and her parents just want to hear from her. Sooner or later she’ll find the courage to write to them.

After a few moments, she slyly changes the subject. "So, you and Rayya are a couple?"

“Pretty crafty subject change.” Marcurio chuckles then quietly stares at the lake. Pulling his arm away from her, he leans back, resting his elbows on the step behind him. "Would that be a problem for you?"

"Why would it?" Makela playfully retorts. "She's not my type."

Makela recalls how attentive Marcurio was to Rayya during the short time they were at Lakeview Manor. When he wasn't helping her get Brelas settled, he was watching over her, ready to attend to any of her needs. It was sweet to watch him doting over her. She could see he really cared for Rayya.

"Yes. We are a couple," Marcurio answers seriously. "I guess."

"What do you mean you guess?" She asks, pulling loose the braid in her damp hair.

Marcurio sits up rubbing his chin. "I don't recall asking her. I just assumed."

Makela bursts into laughter. "You may want to find out where she stands."

"You'd be okay with it?"

"Why not? Rayya's a great person. I'm sure she's better than anyone Grandmother or Aunt Lucia could come up with."

"Hush. My mother would never set me up with anyone unworthy of me."

"Perhaps you're right. I'm sure Octavia Valerius is no longer the evil shrew who vowed to become your wife even if she had to kill you and marry your reanimated corpse."

Marcurio cringes at the thought of the vindictive young woman his mother had chosen for him when he was a teenager. "Mara help me. Please do not speak that vile woman's name."

Makela's hearty laugh is something Marcurio has missed over the past few days. It's good to see a genuine smile, instead of the mask she wears to keep them all at ease.

"The family would love her," Makela tells him with a reassuring smile.

"What about you?"

"Me?! “She fluffs out her loose curls shaking out bits of dirt. She quickly wonders if she had been lying in the dirt while she was daydreaming. “I already love her."

"I mean Ondolemar. I saw you both outside the Thalmor Embassy. Holding hands and talking"

Makela sighs. "So that wasn't a dream?"

"You know it wasn't."

"I suppose so." Makela tilts her head reflecting on that moment with Ondolemar. "It was kind of strange. In a good way… and nice." She shakes away her thoughts. "But I think it was born out of jealousy more than an actual desire to be with me."

"How so?"

"Do you remember that Thalmor from Labyrinthian? The one I hit with the Staff of Magnus."

"Yes."

"Apparently that was a turn on. He, Estormo, was at the Thalmor party and he was a little touchy-feely. Ondolemar walked up as he was confessing his attraction to me"

Marcurio's eyes go wide in awe. "Makela, you attract some of the strangest people."

Makela chuckles then freezes in thought. _"I think you and I would make a perfect couple,"_ an unfamiliar male voice declares. _"To think, if it weren't for Faleen we wouldn't be here."_

"Makela! Makela!" Marcurio shakes her shoulder to pull her out of her daze.

Makela pastes on a fake smile, looking at her cousin. "I'm sorry. I was just lost in thought." She stands dusting at her breeches, knocking away some of the drying mud. She looks up to see Vorstag and Jenassa exiting the house. Pausing she turns back to Marcurio. “Why would a man think he and I would make a perfect couple? And what does Faleen have to do with it?”

“You had a memory?” Marcurio asks with concern.

The troubled look that suddenly crosses Marcurio’s face is enough to tell her this is something she doesn’t want to be bothered with at this time. She has more than enough burdens, now. Whatever this is. Whoever he is. It will have to wait. “Never mind. I’m not ready to deal with this.” She opens the door to Honeyside. “I’m going to take a bath and wash my hair. Then I’m going to the Thieves Guild. Maybe someone can give me some information on this Esbern person. Maybe we can find them before we head off to Snow Veil Sanctum,” she remarks, quickly slipping in the house before Marcurio can pursue the subject.

 ******

"Excuse me." Ancano stands in his cell, returning an empty plate to an Imperial Legion guard. "Do you know Legate Antonius?"

"Which one?"

"Oh yes." It occurs to the Altmer he was in the company of two Legate Antonius'. "The woman. A feisty Redguard/Imperial."

The guard nods acknowledging knowing her.

"How often does she come here?"

"Never. As far as I know."

"Pity." Ancano puts his thumb on his chin pretending to be in thought. "I have some information that would be useful in her endeavors to defeat the Stormcloaks." He sighs dramatically. "Is it possible to get a message to her?"

The guard looks to Legate Rikke, who is going over some paperwork at a nearby table, for approval. Without much thought, she nods and hands the guard paper, a pen, and an inkwell.

"Wonderful." Ancano's phony smile is broad. The guard notices the Altmer’s deceitful grin but chooses not to question his superior officer. Ancano takes the writing supplies amazed the Legate agreed so easily. He shrugs it off and proceeds to write his message.

 ******

Stros M’Kai is lovely this time of year. Unfortunately for Makela and her companions, they’re huddled outside Snow Veil Sanctum, freezing. The sun is doing nothing to keep them warm. Makela shivers draping a bear pelt over her head and shoulders. “Why must these people always meet in the coldest parts of Skyrim?” She mutters to herself. Makela eyes the group, each one of them disappointed, in their own way, that she had allowed Brynjolf to convince her to meet Mercer Frey before attempting to find Esbern.

Standing near their carriage, the four of them have been bickering, for the last 10 minutes, about how to proceed with this next task. Marcurio is by far the most upset because Mercer Frey has demanded Makela enter the tomb alone with him. Not trusting Frey, he doesn’t want Makela anywhere alone with him. “Look, there’s literally a fucking dead horse back there” Marcurio barks. “Let’s just go. Screw this guy and anyone trying to destroy the Thieves Guild.” Vorstag and Jenassa both nod in agreement.

Makela looks back toward Mercer Frey, who’s already standing near the entrance of the crypt. “I promised Brynjolf I’d help take care of this,” she replies.

Marcurio sighs dramatically. “And you owe Brynjolf loyalty? Why?”

“I don’t. But I feel obliged to help them.”

“Dammit!” Marcurio bangs his fist on the side of the carriage. “This misplaced obligation is going to get you killed.”

“Don’t think like that. You’re here to look out for me.”

“Right! And how do I look out for you from out here?” Marcurio queries; practically begging her not to do this.

Mercer loses his patience and bangs the hilt of his sword on the crypt door.

“Ugh!” Makela groans. “This guy is a real dick.”

“Yet you’re going into a Nord burial crypt . . . ALONE . . . with him,” Marcurio angrily retorts, throwing his hands in the air.

Makela touches her cousin on the shoulder and smiles. “If I’m not back in four hours, come find me.”

“Four hours!?” Marcurio yells in frustration, leaning his head against the side of the carriage.

Makela squeezes his shoulder and turns to meet Mercer. “You were not trained to take these kinds of risks,” he yells as she walks away. Marcurio joins Vorstag and Jenassa at the top of Snow Veil Sanctum and they watch Makela disappear inside with Frey. He sighs deeply and shakes his head.

Vorstag slaps him on the shoulder giving him a half smile. “Trust her judgment,” he advises his friend. Marcurio nods and the three of them walk back to the carriage to sit and wait.

 ****** 

Just over two hours after Makela entered Snow Veil Sanctum, Vorstag notices a Dunmer woman dressed in Thieves Guild armor, dragging Makela’s unconscious body from the crypt. He elbows Marcurio in the side then runs towards the stranger; Marcurio and Jenassa are right behind him. Looking down at Makela’s nearly lifeless body, they notice blood coming from her left shoulder and the right side of her abdomen. Marcurio is immediately overwhelmed with anger. “What happened to her?” he yells, grabbing the Dunmer by her arm. The stranger quickly snatches away and steps back.

“Calm down, Marcurio,” Jenassa pleads, stepping between him and the unknown woman. She watches as Vorstag starts to tend to Makela’s wounds. The wound in her abdomen is very deep. Surprisingly, it’s not bleeding as much as expected. “Marcurio! Get down here and heal her wounds,” Vorstag demands.

Marcurio glares at the Dunmer then starts taking care of his cousin. The warm glow from Marcurio’s hands gradually closes both of Makela’s wounds. After a few minutes, Makela slowly opens her eyes, looking at the four people standing above her. She cautiously stands, with Marcurio and Vorstag helping her maintain her balance. She looks at the Dunmer woman and whispers, “You shot me.” Without hesitation, Jenassa pulls her dagger from its sheath while advancing on the woman. Luckily, Vorstag stops her with his free hand.

“No! I saved you,” the woman replies calmly.

Befuddled, Makela glares at the woman. “Who are you? Are you working with Frey?”

“Karliah.”

“Karliah? The woman who’s been plotting against the Thieves Guild?”

“No. I’m the woman who’s been plotting against Mercer Frey,” Karliah sighs, squeezing the bridge her nose between her thumb and finger. “And thanks to you, I have to find a different way to deal with him.”

“Thanks to me?” Makela attempts to step toward the Dunmer on wobbly legs, but Vorstag holds her back.

Karliah explains how she had developed a poison to slow Mercer’s heart rate, so she’d be able to drag him where she needed him without having to fight. Upon getting the information she needed, she had every intention of killing him. Unfortunately, she had made only enough poison for one arrow; the one she used to save Makela’s life.

Karliah goes on to explain her theory that Mercer had turned on Makela and had brought her there to kill her. “You see, if I hadn’t shot you, Mercer would have killed you,” Karliah explains.

Makela eyes her and laughs. “No. If you hadn’t shot me, Mercer would have tried to kill me. You took away my chance to defend myself.”

Karliah tenses, thinking about Makela’s words. “I, I apologize. I thought I was helping.”

“Why didn’t you just shoot Frey and explain the situation to Makela afterward?” Jenassa inquires.

“She would have attacked me for attacking her friend. Right?”

“Friend?” Makela shrugs. “That jackass is not my friend.” She laughs again and loses her balance.

Realizing Makela is unable to maintain her balance on her own, Vorstag lifts her and carries her to the carriage. There Karliah continues her story of how Mercer was the person who murdered Gallus, the former guild master. Gallus had discovered that Mercer had been stealing from the guild. Karliah then hands Gallus’ journal, which is written in an unknown language, to Makela. “Will you take it to Winterhold?” Karliah begs. “I have a friend there, Enthir. He may be able to translate it.” Makela and Marcurio both grimace at the thought of the arrogant mage from the College of Winterhold.

Marcurio takes the journal and hands it back to Karliah. “Take it yourself.” He huffs his indignation, rolling his eyes.

“Please,” Karliah pleads. “I will meet you there. Please trust me.”

“Trust you?” Marcurio roars. “She’s injured because of YOU.”

Makela takes the journal from Karliah. “I’ll do it.”

“What?!” Marcurio exclaims, throwing his hands up.

“It’s okay,” Makela replies. “It’s just a trip to Winterhold. We can resupply while we get the translation.”

“Mara, Julianos, and Akatosh! Why must you always let people talk you into nonsense?” Marcurio snaps, climbing into the driver's seat of the carriage. “You are not in Skyrim for this bullshit,” he growls. Vorstag and Jenassa hop in the back with Makela.

Karliah gives them a look of gratitude. “Thank you so much.”

“Whatever,” Marcurio answers. “If you are not there within two days, we will leave and take your precious journal with us.” He pulls the reins and leads the horses to Winterhold. He turns to Makela. “You will rest and take care of those wounds,” he commands, leaving no room for argument.


	13. Chapter 13

_Kodlak, the harbinger of the Companions grins up at Leki. “What’s your name, young lady?”_

_Leki smiles brightly at the older man. “I've no idea… But I’ve been using Leki. I’ve kind of taken a liking to it.”_

_“You don’t remember your name, yet you think you’re worthy of joining the companions,” Vilkas, Kodlak’s associate yelps._

_Leki grins at the surly Nord. “The tall, pretty redhead asked me to consider joining. I have and I’m not sure you’re worthy of me.”_

_“What?!” Vilkas yelps, as Kodlak bursts into laughter._

_“You’re a very cranky man. After nearly being killed by the Imperial Legion then a dragon, I’d prefer not to be around someone who decides he doesn’t like me at first sight.” She looks at Kodlak. “It was a pleasure meeting you.” She turns to leave the room._

_“Hold on a moment,” Kodlak calls out. “Wouldn’t you like to prove your worth to Vilkas._

_She faces the older Nord. “Not really,” she replies, eyes twinkling. “But… I like your smile. For you, I’ll prove my worth to your grouchy friend.”_

_Vilkas stands to lead Leki to the training yard. At the top of the steps, the main hall of Jorrvaskr is shrouded in darkness. Vilkas' footsteps are replaced by the heavier steps of another. A hand closes around Leki's wrist. “Always ready to rise to the occasion, aren’t you?” A voice whispers with a somewhat annoyed tone._

_"Vilkas?" Leki calls out trying to suppress her sudden fear._

_"No." The voice sighs. "The Nord is not with us."_

_Leki jerks her arm trying to free herself from the grip. The hand yanks her forward slamming her into a body taller and broader than her own. "Who said I was done with you," the voice snarls._

_"Let me go," Leki whispers._

_"No."_

_"Let me go!" She yells snatching her hand back with full force._

Makela flies off the bed as if she was thrown across the room, slamming into the wall.

"Ow, shit," she groans rubbing her back. Looking around Makela realizes she's in a room at the Frozen Hearth. Cursing herself for falling asleep, she gingerly stands.  "How long was I sleep?" She asks herself, grabbing her boots and exiting the room.

Whether she'd admit it or not, she knew she needed the sleep. As always, she hadn't been sleeping through the night. During the two days they spent in Winterhold, Makela never really took the time to get the rest she needed. She stayed still long enough for Marcurio to check her wounds and heal whatever he’d missed at Snow Veil Sanctum. However, when she wasn’t at the Frozen Hearth dealing with Karliah and Enthir, she was at the Hall of Attainment practicing her magicka. She noticed on a few occasions, her magicka seemed off; lower than usual.

Since childhood, Makela had always had an abundance of magicka; much higher than the average Redguard. That was probably due to her Imperial blood and the fact that both her parents were highly skilled and powerful mages. Unable to figure out why her magicka appeared to be low, she shook it off and decided it was due to fatigue.

In the main hall of the inn, she looks around spotting her team sitting in a corner eating. Instead of joining them, she walks to the bar and orders a cup of black tea with honey.

"Still not drinking?" An unpleasant, yet familiar deep voice asks from behind her. "Lovely Makela, you're such a bore," he bemoans, sitting next to her.

She gives the robed stranger a discerning look. First the Windpeak Inn, then the Silver-Blood Inn. She stares at him wondering if its coincidence. Still groggy she's in no mood for polite conversation. "There are plenty of drinkers here." Lifting her hand, she motions around the room. "Feel free to join one of them."

"No. I prefer your company." He sets his wine bottle on the counter.

Dagur, the innkeeper, sits a piping hot cup of tea in front of Makela. She smiles at him then excuses herself. Not quite ready to join her team, she sits at a nearby table.

The strange man follows, taking the seat across from her. "Did you sleep well?"

Desperately wanting to ignore him, but knowing he's going nowhere, Makela politely responds. "No."

The stranger shakes his head as if he feels bad for her. "Why is the archmage of the College of Winterhold sleeping in an inn, anyway?" He asks before taking a drink of his wine. “Do you not have a lovely suite that’s fit for… well, fit for an archmage?

Makela looks at him confused. How does he know that?

"Oh! Was that a secret?" He chuckles. "You have an awful lot of secrets Legate Antonius."

Makela looks around to see if anyone heard him. Sitting in the middle of a Stormcloak allied town, the last thing she needs is her identity revealed. She pushes away from the table, taking her tea. "I have to go."

"Wait, wait," he puts out a hand blocking her escape. "You've done a lot for the people of this pitiful town. I doubt they'd turn you over to Ulfric Stormcloak." He leans closer to her. "I mean a Thalmor sorcerer waltzed in and nearly blew the place off the map - again. What did they do? They stood idly by waiting for you to save them." He takes another sip of wine. "If you ask me, they should be grateful for the Imperial general that brought you into this world." He gestures for her to return to her seat. "I know I am."

The same unease Makela felt the last time she saw this man has increased tenfold. Fighting him would be a challenge and there could be many casualties among the locals. Not wanting him to cause a scene, she takes her seat. She looks toward the back of the room making sure her friends are still around.

"They aren't going anywhere. Relax and enjoy your tea. Have you eaten?” He laughs without giving her a chance to reply. “Of course not. What a silly question." He signals for Dagur's attention then orders seared slaughterfish with a side of vegetables.

Makela crinkles her nose and takes a sip of her tea.

The stranger laughs looking at the innkeeper. " Lovely Makela doesn't like slaughterfish, nor does she like venison.

_How does he know that?_ She wonders to herself.

"I know more than you think," he whispers, leaning across the table. He turns his attention back to Dagur. "Bring her a bowl of beef stew and some bread."

"No thank you. I'm not hungry." Makela responds, but Dagur walks away as if Makela has no say so in this situation.

"Don't be ridiculous. The Dragonborn needs her strength." He leans back in his seat with an obscenely wide smile. "Imagine Legate Antonius, the Dragonborn, dying not on the battlefield against the Stormcloaks or the World Eater, but due to malnourishment or lack of sleep." The stranger sighs. "How disgraceful would that be?"

"How would you know my sleeping or eating habits?" Makela asks refusing to lose her cool.

He scoots his chair closer to her. "I told you Makela, I know plenty about you - daughter of Marcellus and Serafina Antonius, sister of Divad Antonius."

For the first time, Makela falters and her eyes go wide revealing a hint of fear.

"Shall I go on?" The wicked sparkle in his eyes causes a chill to run down her spine.

"Who are you?"

Leaning deeper into Makela’s personal space, he places his hand on the back of her neck. "I am the one you've buried back here…" His index finger taps on the back of her skull. " ...deep in the recesses of your mind." He slowly pulls away, dragging his finger across the curve of her cheek. "I am the one who grows tired of waiting for you to regain all of your memories… well the memories of me." He takes a long drink of his wine. "They say patience is a virtue. Unfortunately, Lovely Makela, I am not a virtuous being."

Never being one for mind games, Makela snaps. “If you’re so tired of waiting for me to regain my memories, just tell me who you are.”

“Where would be the fun in that?”

“You’re contradicting yourself,” she remarks, rolling her eyes at his mischievous grin.

Dagur serves their food and sits another bottle of wine in the center of the table. The strange man thanks the innkeeper and immediately digs into his meal. "Oh my," he moans with bizarre pleasure. "Who would've thought seared slaughterfish could be this delicious." With his fork in hand, he points at Makela's stew.  "Eat up. You're so close to breaking through the Thalmor's will. Do you intend to starve to death before he proclaims his feelings for you?" He picks up her spoon and hands it to her. "Go ahead. The Dunmer thief will be here soon. Then off you go to solve the problems of yet another stranger. I wonder if she'd do the same for you." His face grows serious. "Would she sacrifice her personal goals or the future of her country to help you? Somehow I doubt it." He eyes the stew the Makela, giving her a look that says refusing to eat is not an option.

Makela looks around the room, counting the number of people to herself. Can she take him without harming too many innocent bystanders?

"Fourteen - including your friends." Tearing off a piece of bread and popping it in his mouth, he relaxes in his seat with a cocky smirk. "Go ahead. Make your move. I won't harm any of them; not even that overprotective cousin of yours. I promise," he asserts, giving her a look that screams "I dare you."

Not willing to take the chance, Makela sighs and slowly eats a spoonful of her stew.

Satisfied with Makela's choice, the stranger goes back to eating his own meal. They eat in amiable silence for a while. The whole time Makela is trying to figure out who this stranger is and how he knows so much about her.

"No one wants you to remember me more than I do," he admits interrupting her thoughts. "The game is no fun when the players don't remember their roles."

"Game?"

"Did I say game? You must've misheard."

Makela rolls her eyes, refusing to play along.

The stranger blows out an exasperated breath. "Do you see what I mean? You're no fun." He pushes his plate away and opens the new bottle of wine. "So how are things with your Thalmor?"

"Don't you know, already?"

"Actually, I do," he chortles. "Things are looking up. But act fast. This Altmer doesn't like competition."

"He doesn't have any."

"Do you think so?"

"I know so."

"Let's see, we have the Nord. I suppose he never really had a chance. Plus, your cousin had him sent away for being too nosy."

Makela raises her eyebrow in confusion wondering why anyone would have Gunnar sent away.

"The other Altmer isn't going anywhere, but that's just a sexual attraction." He leers at Makela a few seconds. "He has good taste, but he's no real threat to the surly one that has your heart."

Makela finishes her stew and sets the spoon down.

"But the Imperial."

"Imperial?"

"Yes. Like me, you've forgotten him. And like me, he hasn't forgotten you."

"Who is he?"

"You'll find out soon."

"Or you'll just tell me now."

"I could. So, could Faleen. Ask her first and I'll confirm if she tells you the truth or not."

"Makela!" Her cousin calls from behind.

Makela turns to see Marcurio, Karliah and the others walking toward the cellar.

"Oh my, our time is up." The stranger feigns disappointment. "Until next time, Lovely Makela.

Before she can respond, the stranger is already on the other side of the room sharing a drink with an already drunk Ranmir. Refusing to mull over this conversation, Makela follows the others to the cellar.

******

In the meeting with Enthir, Makela and Karliah learn Gallus’ journal is written in the Falmer language. After Enthir suggests seeking assistance from Calcelmo. Makela immediately makes her way back to Markarth. Once there, she heads straight to Understone Keep, against Marcurio's demands for her to rest and allow someone else to deal with the journal translation. Dashing past the guards, she runs up to Calcelmo’s research area. “Good morning, Calcelmo,” Makela brightly greets him.

“I’m a little busy now, Makela,” the scholar barks, keeping his back to her. “Come back another time.”

“Hmm, someone’s a bit moody,” she mutters to herself.

Aicantar gives an apologetic smile for his uncle’s rude behavior. Makela smiles back, then sprints off. She flies up the steps toward the throne and right into Ondolemar. Hands on her waist, he huffs prepared to yell at her, as he always does. Before the words come out, Makela pulls away from him with a frantic look. “Oh my. I’m so sorry.” Despite her smile, it’s not the normal playfulness, Ondolemar has come to expect from Makela. No cheerful greeting. No joke about bumping into him just to see him. No holding his hand. He also notices a few beads of sweat on her forehead and that her face looks tired. _Is she alright?_ He wonders to himself.

Makela brightens her smile, briefly, then darts to the dais, greeting Jarl Igmund and Raerek. She takes a quick labored breath then grabs Faleen’s hand and runs down the steps. “What are you doing?” Faleen squeals, as she’s dragged down the steps.

Not offering a reply, Makela continues.

“Suddenly you want to be in my presence,” Faleen dryly remarks.

Makela stops halfway down the steps, turning to her cousin. _So, this is how she wants to play this._ She looks at Faleen with curiosity, wondering why she wouldn’t just follow her and keep her mouth shut. “I’ll ask you what I asked Marcurio. Why would a man think he and I would make a perfect couple? And what do you have to do with it?”

Faleen’s breath catches and she stares blankly at Makela.

“The exact answer I expected,” Makela dully replies, rolling her eyes. She turns and continues down the steps, dragging Faleen behind her. She stops when she arrives at Calcelmo’s research area. Despite the growing distance between her and Faleen, Makela needs her cousin at this moment. Aicantar looks between the two women and gives them a hesitant smile. “Calcelmo,” Makela sweetly calls out to the churlish scholar.

“What is it, Makela?” He yells. “I told you I was busy.” He swings around to see Faleen standing next to Makela. “Oh. Good…good morning Faleen,” he greets in a gentler tone. “How can I help you?”

Faleen smiles at him then looks at Makela. Clearing her throat to cover a giggle, Makela approaches Calcelmo, still holding Faleen’s hand. “Calcelmo, I need some assistance in translating a journal that’s written in the Falmer language. Is it possible for you to help me?”

Still gazing in Faleen’s eyes, Calcelmo responds excitedly. “Oh! Yes, yes of course.” He gestures to his nephew never taking his eyes off Faleen. “Aicantar will take you up to the tower and give you everything you need.”

Aicantar looks at Makela and nods in agreement. “Yes. Whenever you’re ready,”

“Wonderful!” Makela cheers. “Do you mind if Faleen stays here while Aicantar and I go to the tower?”

Faleen gives Makela a puzzled look but goes to take a seat near Calcelmo’s research table. “May I?” She asks pointing to a bench.

“Yes. Please do,” Calcelmo eagerly responds.

Taking that as her cue, Makela turns to follow Aicantar to Calcelmo’s tower. “You’re pretty crafty,” Aicantar remarks after observing how Makela manipulated his uncle.

“Who me?” she waves him off, smiling to herself.

The trek up to the tower was uneventful but seemed longer than Makela expected. There were a ridiculous number of guards protecting the place. One would think Calcelmo was the actual jarl of Markarth. Makela found the conversation to and from the tower with Aicantar very interesting. He clearly was just as intelligent as his uncle. On the way back from retrieving an etching of the Falmer text, Makela and Aicantar chat about Dwemer ruins and speculate about the disappearance of the lost Mer. As they get closer to the research area, he notices Makela is not being her usual lively self. “Are you okay?” Aicantar asks, concerned about her unusually slow pace.

“Yes. I’m just a little hot.”

They both walk over to the edge of the research area. Faleen immediately runs over to Makela noticing something is off. “What’s wrong?” She asks, grabbing Makela’s wrist and pulling her close.

“Nothing,” Makela replies, shrugging off Faleen’s concern. “I… I just feel a little worn out. I think I need a stamina potion.”

“Worn out? From walking to Calcelmo’s chambers?” Faleen questions, not believing Makela.

“He lives in a tower,” Makela whines. “High up in a tower. It was like a maze getting up to that place,” she embellishes, forcing a smile to put Faleen at ease. With Aicantar’s assistance, Faleen leads Makela to a bench and Calcelmo hands her a stamina potion.

 ******

Ondolemar stands in the kitchen, quietly preparing for lunch. He thinks back on Makela’s tired features and how unsteady she was; beyond her normal clumsiness. He shakes the thoughts away and goes back to listening to the conversation between Aria and Alaric. Apparently, Elenwen was angry because someone had freed one of her prisoners and stolen some documents. He didn’t care, he was just glad to be away from the shrew for the next month. While thinking about that he starts to remove his gloves to wash his hands. Pulling off his left glove, he notices blood in the palm area. He ponders, a moment where the blood could have come from then immediately runs out the kitchen. Concerned, Alaric and Aria take off after him.

 ******

Makela and Faleen are slowly making their way from Calcelmo’s area when Makela starts having difficulty breathing.

“Makela!” Faleen yelps, watching Makela wheeze.

“I guess the stamina potion didn’t work,” Makela jokes, between gasps for breath.

“Not funny, Makela.” Faleen growls. “Aicantar,” Faleen yells towards Calcelmo’s area. “We need your help.”

“I’m so hot,” Makela moans, stopping to remove her jacket. Once it’s off, she groans in pain, places her hand on her right side and stumbles backward into Aicantar’s arms. “Aw, shit!” Feeling blood pool beneath her hand, “Why am I bleeding?”

“Oh, Mara, no!” Faleen screams looking at the blood. “Someone find Marcurio! Please!”

Thongvor Silverblood runs over to offer his assistance. They try to lay Makela on the floor to get access to her wound, but she weakly attempts to slap them away. “I’m fine,” she says, putting on a brave face.

“You are not fine!” Faleen yells. “Heal her!” She barks at Aicantar. “Heal her!”

As the healing spells well up in Aicantar’s hands, Makela touches his wrist and gives him a pleading look. “I can do it myself.” She attempts to conjure a healing spell, but nothing happens. _It doesn’t work. Why?_

“What’s wrong?” Faleen yelps, her panicked voice echoing strangely in the keep.

“It’s nothing. I just need to go home and rest,” Makela weakly replies.

“Rest?! Are you kidding?”

“Calm down,” Makela whispers. “I’m good.” Pulling herself up, she nods her thanks to Aicantar and Thongvor, then starts to walk toward the keep door. Faleen grabs her arm and holds her back. “Faleen, I really am fine. Please let me go home,” Makela pleads through a forced smile. Hoping to ease Faleen’s worries, Makela makes another attempt to heal herself. Nothing. Her body feels as if her magicka is completely depleted. “Huh, I can’t heal myself...” She makes another attempt, concentrating all her energy on the simplest healing spell. All she needs to do is stop the bleeding then maybe Faleen will let her go home where Marcurio can help her figure out what’s going on with her magicka.

Closing her eyes, Makela focuses on the bleeding. Suddenly, becoming lightheaded the world around her spins. “Fuck!” She groans. Legs stiff and unable to walk, Makela loses her balances and starts to fall backward. Aicantar and Thongvor both step up to aid her. However, before they can, Ondolemar dashes by them and sweeps the fainting Makela into his arms. She looks at him, a single tear falling from her eye. “Why can’t I heal myself...?’ She asks before passing out.

 ******

At the request of an overwrought Jarl Igmund, Ondolemar had taken Makela to a guest room near the Jarl’s quarters. Wanting to help, but not wanting to intrude, he stands to the side with Aria and Alaric, watching Faleen tear away Makela’s undershirt revealing breast bindings. He notices two open wounds; the first is small just above her left breast, barely missing her heart. “Probably an arrow,” he deduced, murmuring to himself. The wound in her abdomen was much larger, deeper and gushing blood.

“Who did this to you...?” He stares at the serene face that replaced the pained one Makela had before she passed out.

“Shit!” Faleen frantically yelps, holding back tears. “Where’s Marcurio? I can’t do this.”

Ondolemar rushes over to the Redguard, taking the cloth from her shaking hands. “I’ll clean and heal her wounds.”

“Okay...” Faleen whispers as Aria helps her stand.

“Aria I need you to cut away these bindings and cover her with this.” He hands her a long piece of linen cloth, then he and Alaric turn their back waiting for Aria. After she’s done, Ondolemar sits on the edge of the bed and proceeds to clean Makela’s wounds. The first thing he notices is the wounds seem to have been healed and has reopened.

Aria and Alaric attempt to walk Faleen to the side to give Ondolemar some room, but she refuses to budge.

“We need to know what happened,” Ondolemar calmly states to Faleen. “This didn’t just come out of nowhere.”

Faleen nods in agreement but doesn’t move from her spot. All she can do is watch the movements of the blood-soaked cotton in Ondolemar’s hand.

“Where is she?!” Marcurio yells, bursting into the room. He comes to a standstill when he sees Makela’s unconscious body lying on the bed. “What the… What happened...?” He notices the wound on Makela’s shoulder, then snatches Ondolemar’s hand from her abdomen. “Frey...” he growls releasing the Altmer’s hand.

“Who?” Faleen pulls Marcurio to the side to question him.

Marcurio explains the incident at Snow Veil Sanctum; Karliah shooting Makela with a poisoned arrow and Mercer stabbing her.

“Why didn’t you heal her?” Faleen shouts overwhelmed with fear and anger.

“I did,” he replies. “At least I tried. A Wound like that requires more than magicka. Makela needed rest but she refused.” Raking his hands through his hair he continues, “Karliah asked her to go to Winterhold, from there we came here to see Calcelmo.” He heaves a labored sigh. “I told her not to come here… no, I begged her... I could have gotten what was needed from Calcelmo, but instead of resting, she snuck out. Now, here we are...” He trails off, looking at his cousin once more. Frustrated, he drops in a nearby chair cursing to himself.

After getting the bleeding under control, Ondolemar heals her wounds then applies a healing poultice. Not waiting for Faleen or Marcurio to pull themselves together, he steps out of the room, returning with a mortar and pestle, grinding garlic, salt pile, and jazbay grapes into a paste. As he gets ready to apply the paste to Makela’s wounds, Marcurio grabs his shoulder, stopping him.

“What in Oblivion are you doing?” Marcurio shrieks.

Ondolemar looks at the unwelcome hand on his shoulder, then into the eyes of the distraught Imperial. “Apologies.” He holds the paste up to Marcurio. “This ointment will help regenerate her magicka.”

“Regenerate...? Why?” Marcurio asks, confused.

Ondolemar sighs, trying to summon patience for Makela’s cousin. “She couldn’t heal herself. She was completely depleted of magicka. That leads me to believe that the sword used to stab her was coated with poison that would prevent her from using magicka,” he states, continuing to blend the paste. “This Mercer Frey must be aware of her ability to heal herself. Therefore, he poisoned her to prevent that. When…this Karliah person shot Makela with poison to slow her heartbeat and I assume blood flow, she also slowed the flow of the poison into her bloodstream.” He removes Marcurio’s hand and begins applying the ointment to Makela’s wounds. “Now that her blood appears to be flowing normally, so is the poison.”

“But why did her wounds reopen, despite Marcurio healing them,” Faleen asks, moving closer to Ondolemar.

“She is a woman that can’t stay still. And like Marcurio said, wounds like these need rest to properly heal. If she’s gallivanting all over Skyrim at the pace of an ice wraith, she is bound to impede her body’s ability to mend itself.” After bandaging the wounds, he stands and hands the ointment to Marcurio. “Apply this and a healing poultice, every three or four hours when you change her bandages. She should be okay in a few days.”  He starts to leave the room. “I’ll make some more ointment and leave it in the kitchen with Anton.”

“Aren’t you coming back?” Faleen asks.

“Perhaps later.”

“Thank you for helping her,” Marcurio remarks with sincerity.

Ondolemar stops at the door. “She’s not unconscious, she’s asleep.”

Marcurio sighs, rubbing his head in relief and concern at the same time.

“Is there a problem?” Ondolemar inquires. Faleen looks on with her own curiosity.

“No... but also yes...” Marcurio mumbles. “But we’re here, so she’ll be fine.”

Ondolemar raises a concerned eyebrow. “You all must do better at making her rest. She seems to carry the heavy and simple burdens of all of Skyrim.”

“When she wakes up, you try making Makela do something she doesn’t want to do,” Marcurio lightly laughs.

Ondolemar takes another look at her peaceful face, then walks out of the room.

Faleen notices a nightshirt at the foot of the bed. She asks Marcurio to go update the Jarl and the others while she gets Makela dressed. After he leaves, Faleen sits on the bed and lifts Makela’s upper body, pulling the shirt over her head. “Between this, disappearing, and the amnesia you’re going to drive me insane... Why can’t you settle down and be normal...?” After laying Makela back down she pulls a blanket over her cousin. “It doesn’t have to be with Varen. I honestly thought he’d be a good match.” Catching herself, she looks around to see if anyone else was in the room. “I’m sorry that I was wrong...” She kisses Makela’s forehead then sits on a nearby chair.

******

A knock on the door pulls General Tullius from his thoughts. “Enter.” the general orders. The large door creaks open and a tall Imperial, a Penitus Oculatus Agent, enters. Dressed in the armor of a high-ranking officer, the man’s smile widens when he looks at General Tullius.

“Good afternoon, Father.” The door closes behind the man.

General Tullius rolls his eyes, disappointed at being acknowledged as the father of this person. “Varen. What are you doing here?”

“I heard a rumor she was here.”

Tullius rubs his forehead and sighs deeply. “Did you have anything to do with her ending up in Helgen?”

“Straight to the point,” Varen smirks at his father. “Will it anger you if I did?”

“Of course, Varen,” the general barks, slamming his fist on his desk, frowning at his son’s smug grin.

“Well, no. I had nothing to do with Makela’s misfortune in Helgen.”

“Go back to Cyrodiil,” Tullius orders, rubbing his temples. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Still smiling and never breaking eye contact with his father. “Not just yet,” Varen states while taking a seat across from General Tullius. An impish smirk spreads across his face, watching the muscles in the general’s face clinch. “I’m here for Emperor Titus, Father. We’ll be seeing each other quite regularly.”

******

A calm has come over the keep, as usual, in the evening hours. Most of the staff have returned to their rooms or gone out for the evening. Unable to rest, Faleen returns to the guest room to check up on Makela. When she enters, she finds Ondolemar, casually dressed, sitting with his legs crossed, in a chair next to Makela’s bed. Peaking over his shoulder, she notices him reading a book on advanced alchemy.  “Is that a good book?” she inquires.

Startled, Ondolemar drops the book in his lap.

“I’m so sorry...” Faleen sincerely apologizes.

“No, no. Don’t apologize. I didn’t hear you come in.” He closes the book then starts standing.

“No,” Faleen stops him. “Don’t leave on my account.” She watches as he sits and places the book on his lap. “How is she?” She asks, nodding toward Makela.

“Her wounds appear to be healing well. As I said, she should be fine, physically, In a few days.”

Faleen observes the cover of his book. “Are you going to prepare another ointment?”

“No,” he replies. “I’m trying to figure out how Karliah made a poison that slowed Makela’s heartbeat.” He sits up in his seat. “One would think Makela would have some resistance to the poison. But... Karliah was able to make something that not only slowed her heartbeat but put her in a very vulnerable position.” He sighs rubbing the bridge of his nose. “She could have killed Makela.”

Faleen gasps at his blunt assertion. Noticing, Ondolemar tries to console her with positivity. “Fortunately, Makela is resilient. Not many adventurers could bounce back as quickly as she does.”

“She’s not an adventurer,” Faleen snorts sarcastically. “Surely you’ve figured that out by now.” She stands over the bed watching her cousin tremble in her sleep. “Luckily her Redguard endurance and Imperial good luck worked out for her this time.”

“Indeed, it did.” Ondolemar agrees. “ _This_ time. But we both know she’s going back out there, and the next time things could be worse.”

Faleen acknowledges him with a quiet nod, knowing there is some truth to his words. They both watch as Makela’s trembling intensifies and her face contorts in pain.

“How often does she have nightmares?” Ondolemar asks with concern.

“I don’t know. She used to have them often when we were children, but she grew out of them.” She steps away from the bed ready to leave the room. “You should ask Marcurio about the recent nightmares.” She walks out the room leaving Ondolemar to his thoughts and speculations.


	14. Chapter 14

Sitting quietly next to Makela's bed, Ondolemar furrows his brow in confusion, wondering what draws him to her. Why can't he leave? What is this hold she has on him? She has family, friends, the Jarl, and Anton to tend to her every need; yet he can't seem to tear himself away from her side. He sighs taking her hand, hoping his subtle touch will calm the fears of whatever or whomever she's fighting off in her nightmare. Ignoring the sound of the door opening and closing he continues watching Makela battling in her sleep.

"Is she still in her nightmare?" Aria inquires not expecting an answer. She pulls up a chair and sits next to him. Glancing at her superior, she notices his face is uncharacteristically tense. The one person she can count on to be unbothered by anything sits with his jaw set tight, his shoulders stiff, and traces of fear and concern in his eyes. He's scared. "If you want to go have dinner or something, I can sit with her."

"I've already eaten." He nods toward a tray sitting on the side table. There's a half-eaten bowl of vegetable stew and a slice of bread. "Anton brought it to me a little while ago."

The two Thalmor sit quietly for a few minutes watching Makela twitch and shiver in her sleep. "She looks so vulnerable," Aria remarks.

Ondolemar sits quietly for a few seconds, rubbing his thumb across Makela's knuckles, wondering if she knows he's there. "Did you see Faleen?" He asks not knowing what to say but feeling the need to say something.

"Yes. I saw her as she was leaving the keep."

"Leaving?" He perks up with curiosity.

"Yes. She was going to meet the others to discuss taking Makela to Vlindrel Hall."

_Take her to Vlindrel Hall?!_ Ondolemar's head jerks toward Aria; the first time he's taken his attention off Makela since she's walked in. "Why would they do that?"

"Well, it is her home," Aria replies, shocked by his reaction. "Faleen says Marcurio is worried about sleep paralysis. Apparently, she’s been known to fight her way out of her sleep. He doesn't want her to injure herself. And he worries about her waking up alone in an unfamiliar place."

"She won't be alone," Ondolemar states, turning back to Makela. "I'll be here."

"You're staying here? All night?" Aria asks, stunned by his statement.

"Yes."

"Where will you sleep?"

"How will I sleep knowing she is not only suffering from whatever is haunting her in her sleep, but she's also recovering from her injuries."

"Ondolemar." Aria touches his shoulder gently.

"I'm not going anywhere," he insists through gritted teeth. "Neither is she."

******

Vorstag enters the dining room of Vlindrel Hall, holding a satchel and a few messages from the courier he met on the way. After sitting the messages on the table, he places the satchel on a bookcase shelf. The scent of something delicious fills the air. He greets Argis, who's stirring something in the cooking pot. Peeking over the housecarl’s shoulder, he sees clam chowder bubbling in the pot and smiles. "Oh, you're using the clams Makela picked up in Winterhold."

"Yeah. She picked out some good ones this time around." He nods toward a barrow in the kitchen. "I’ve stored a few with ice wraith teeth. I'll cook those for Makela when she wakes up."

"She'll love that," Jenassa chimes in, sitting at the table cutting vegetables for a salad. "She was going on about those clams the whole ride back from Winterhold"

Vorstag chuckles, grabbing fresh bread from the oven. After having an oven in Lakeview Manor, Makela insisted Raerek build an oven in Vlindrel Hall. The older man was against it, but after some begging and turning on the charm with Jarl Igmund, Raerek gave in; as everyone expected. Just as Vorstag sits the plate of bread on the table, Marcurio walks in with a platter of salmon.

Cooking together is common for the group. Whenever they’re home, they always try to cook and eat together at least once or twice during their stay. No matter what house they stayed in, they carried out that tradition. Being so far away from home, it gives them a sense of normalcy and family.

Faleen enters holding a package of sweets she received from Anton. After placing them on the side table, she takes a seat at the main table smiling. "Dinner looks delicious."

Argis and Jenassa bring the remaining dishes to the table then sit across from Faleen.

"I thought you were sitting with Makela until one of us came over?" Marcurio queries, staring at her.

"She's okay," Faleen replies, nonchalantly waving him off. "She doesn't need me."

"I thought we agreed not to leave her alone in case she wakes up."

"No - YOU agreed." Faleen counters, rolling her eyes while slicing a piece of bread. "She's not alone. Ondolemar has been with her since he got off duty."

Marcurio tilts his head to the side pondering why it's okay that the object of Makela's infatuation is sitting at her bedside instead of the cousin that agreed to sit with her. "I'll go keep her company." Releasing a discontented sigh, he starts walking toward the door.

"Marcurio, she's fine," Faleen yelps, rubbing her temple, exasperated with her cousin's cousin.

Marcurio swings around glowering at Faleen. If looks could kill the young Redguard wouldn’t be dead, but she’d probably be laid up next to Makela for a few days. "Fine?! How do you figure? A few hours ago, she was laying in the middle of Understone Keep bleeding from an injury we thought was healed. Now she's recuperating in a guest room."

"She's asleep!" The other’s cringe at the resentful tone in Faleen’s voice.

"And the nightmares?" Marcurio barks.

Faleen rolls her eyes, believing Marcurio is overreacting. Vorstag squeezes Marcurio's shoulder. "Sit down and eat. She'll be fine until we finish dinner," he calmly states.

After a heavy sigh, Marcurio sits next to Faleen and Vorstag sits to his left. The sly Imperial cocks an impish grin as he watches Faleen pout after being denied the opportunity to cuddle against Makela’s best friend during dinner.

The five of them converse about a variety of subjects as they eat. Occasionally, Marcurio would make an underhanded comment about Faleen or she would snap at him over something minor. The bickering between Makela's cousins concerned everyone, especially Vorstag. He'd spent the better part of his life with them. They were always very close; as close as they were to Makela. Over the past several weeks, he's watched Makela grow distant from Faleen, and now Marcurio is doing the same. He couldn't help but wonder what caused the change in their relationships. Before he could ask, Marcurio changes the subject to Makela.

"I think it's best we bring Makela home, tonight," Marcurio declares.

"Of course you do," Faleen mumbles, thinking she's not loud enough to be heard. She's wrong.

The other four turn their attention to her, waiting for her to continue.

Realizing they'd heard her remark; she quickly clears her throat and paints on a phony smile. "It’s a good idea, but I doubt Ondolemar will approve."

"Luckily, I don't need his approval," Marcurio retorts.

"Why would you think we cared if he approved or not?" Jenassa asks, tired of Faleen's lack of concern for Makela. "He doesn't have a say in this. Why pretend he does?"

Faleen sits uncomfortably in her seat, rolling her eyes. "He has feelings for her."

"So, what?" Marcurio barks. "So does Gunnar and that strange Thalmor from Labyrinthian. Should we find out their opinions, as well?"

"Don't be silly, Marcurio."

Marcurio moves from the table ready to storm out. "Makela is coming home." He stops when he notices the messages sitting near the empty chair where Makela would have been sitting. "What's this?" He asks picking up the letters.

"I bumped into a courier on the way back from the stables," Vorstag tells him, reaching for the messages. "They're all from Castle Dour."

Marcurio keeps one and hands him the others. "This is from General Tullius." He reads over the note. "He wants Makela to report to Castle Dour to discuss moving forward against the Stormcloaks."

Everyone in the room knows it will be a challenge to get Makela to meet Tullius. She feels anger and resentment for the fact that he did nothing to save her. For weeks, after she recovered her memories, she stewed over the fact that the general was so focused on Ulfric Stormcloak, that he never looked in her direction.

Vorstag opens another letter then scans it briefly. "This is from… Ancano?!"

"What?!" Jenassa and Marcurio both react with concerned surprise.

"Tullius didn't release him to the Thalmor?" Jenassa questions.

"That's surprising," Marcurio casually admits.

"Hold on! He addressed it to Legate Antonius," Vorstag informs the group.

Jenassa and Argis hop from their chairs and rounds the table to look over Vorstag's shoulder. Marcurio moves closer, as well. They read the message in silence.

"He wants to see her." Vorstag finally says out loud. "He claims to have helpful information."

"Information he couldn't pass on to Tullius or Rikke?" Jenassa inquires in disbelief.

"I don't like this." Marcurio takes a few steps away considering the possibility the sorcerer has pertinent information. "He's up to something."

"He wants her to know he knows her name," Jenassa replies. "He wants her to think he's a threat."

"He's not," Marcurio huffs.

Vorstag faces Marcurio. "Does it matter? He’s issuing a challenge… to Makela,” He looks at the others as he emphasizes Makela’s name. “We all know she can’t resist a challenge. There's a possibility she’ll meet him."

Marcurio nods in agreement. "You’re right. Despite her desire to avoid Tullius." He sits at the head of the table. "What does the other message say?"

Vorstag opens the note. "It's from Rikke." He reads the letter to himself. Immediately everyone notices his face go red with anger.

"What is it?" Marcurio asks.

Vorstag reads the letter again, before responding. "Varen is in Skyrim. Rikke saw him entering General Tullius' office.” As Marcurio and Jenassa scurry to Vorstag, they hear glass crash on the floor. They look up to see Faleen flushed with fear with a broken wine bottle at her feet.

Frozen momentarily, she looks at the group as if she’s spotted a ghost. "I'm so sorry." She gasps, looking at the floor. She hurriedly stoops down to clean up the broken bottle. Argis pulls her away before she can reach for the glass.

"I'll clean it up. Don't worry about it," he says to her in a soothing tone.

She gives Argis an apologetic nod, then turns to the others. "I… I have to go. Ondolemar probably hasn’t had dinner himself. I should relieve him." She rushes down the hall and out the door leaving everyone confused.


	15. Chapter 15

_"I told you!" Leki yells running for cover near Irileth, Jarl Balgruuf's steward, behind the Western Watchtower. "That looks like a fucking dragon to me," she angrily huffs, peeking around the building. "It's not even the same dragon from Helgen!"_

_"How in Oblivion do you kill a dragon?" Uthgerd, Leki's companion asks._

_"That's a good question," Leki replies leaning her head against the tower. She listens to the roars of the dragon and the Whiterun guards doing their best to take down the beast. Taking a deep calming breath, Leki pulls her bow from her back. "We'll figure something out," she says charging into battle._

_It didn’t take long to realize killing this dragon was not going to be an easy task. Crouching behind some dilapidated steps, Leki works out a plan of attack in her head. She glances toward the tower to see Uthgerd and Irileth catch their breaths, while a few of the guards continue to attack the flying monster with arrows._

_"Shit! That really is a dragon." Jenassa, a mercenary Leki met at the Drunken Huntsman, eases up beside Leki._

_"What are you doing here?" Leki asks the persistent woman. She had already passed on her assistance because she couldn't afford her fee. "I told you I didn't need your aid."_

_Jenassa looks over the steps as the dragon lands, then back at Leki. "It looks like you do."_

_"I can't pay you," Leki blurts in an annoyed tone._

_"No need. I came of my own accord." She takes another peek at the dragon. "What's the plan?"_

_Leki pauses then smiles at the Dunmer. "Keep attacking until the damn thing dies," she responds running toward the dragon._

_A few minutes into the battle, the dragon is weakened, unfortunately, the same can be said for many of the guards. Uthgerd lies prone on the ground, not dead but in no shape to fight. Guards that are out of arrows, toss stones and debris at the beast. The dragon looks over his wing at the guards and snorts before turning his attention back to Irileth and Jenassa, who he has cornered against the tower._

_Breathing heavily, Leki drinks a health potion while trying to figure out how to save the women. Just as the dragon rears up ready to burn them alive, Leki runs full speed toward the winged creature, his back still to her, she grabs Uthgerd's greatsword. With a few adrenaline-rushed steps, she dashes toward the dragon and drives the sword into its leg._

_As the dragon roars in pain, Leki slides under its wing, while unsheathing a dagger. She jams the blade in the side of its neck. Not fully thinking through her plan, Leki tries to use the dagger as leverage to throw herself on top of the dragon. She screams in agony as she awkwardly lands on one of the spikes protruding from the animal's neck, ripping a deep gash in her thigh._

_The dragon writhes in pain, leaving Leki with no time to deal with her own. She quickly pulls herself together, grabs her sword and stabs the dragon, repeatedly, in a soft spot between its spikes. The dragon drops down, subdued, but not quite defeated. Leki sits up and drags herself to its head and stabs it through the skull. When the beast finally expires, Leki falls off its corpse, landing hard on the ground._

_Jenassa and the guards run toward the fallen hero. They help her to her feet, ready to head back to Whiterun. Before they move, a whirlwind of light emanates from the dragon's body. With a frantic rush, the unknown power enters Leki's body. She shakes in torturous pain before falling back to the ground._

_Jenassa drops to her side. "Makela, are you alright?" She asks holding the woman in her arms._

_"I'm fine" Leki says through heavy breaths. She looks at Jenassa suspiciously. "Who’s Makela?"_

_Before Jenassa can respond, a guard kneels next to them. "Did you just absorb that dragon's soul?"_

_Leki gives the guard a bewildered stare._

_"DRAGONBORN!" another guard calls out._

_"You… are the Dragonborn," a third guard yelps._

_Confused and tired Leki tries to pull herself up to head back to Dragonsreach. When she attempts to move, her body feels held in place. She looks at Jenassa and the guard, who have both stood up and are no longer looking in her direction. With a huff, she makes another attempt to get up._

_"Not so fast," a deep voice purrs._

_Leki freezes. Looking around she sees everyone is gone; leaving her alone at the Western Watchtower, leaning against a dragon's skeleton._

_"Might I have a little of your time?" The voice whispers. "I don’t want much. Just to offer a little advice or…  warning. It matters not how you choose to take it."_

_Leki struggles against the hold on her._

_"You’ve made quite a few enemies, recently... and it looks like your past has come back to haunt you. The time will come when you will need me. The question is… will I come when you call?” A long finger slides around the curve of her jaw._

_Leki remains quiet, refusing to give the being a response._

_The being sighs, exasperated by her silence. “I’m bored with this. What must I do to get your attention? Your friends annoy me and are no fun. Your children are useless to me, as you were when you were a child.” His grip tightens around her. “Although they would make for wonderful bait. Don’t you agree?”_

_"Who are you?" Leki asks, panic bubbling in her chest._

_"Come to me, and you shall find out."_

_Leki continues her useless struggle to break free from the invisible grip._

“Did you sleep well, Makela?” The voice asks, whispering menacingly in her ear. "My my, it looks like we have company."

Makela's eyes fly open to see Ondolemar sitting near her bed reading. She attempts to lift herself up, but she can't. She feels a presence lying next to her. It’s holding her down with its arm and leg draped over her; keeping her in place. Panic instantly overwhelms her. Only able to move her eyes, she looks down to see nothing. No one is there holding her in place. She should be able to move, yet she can't.

She calls out to Ondolemar, but her mouth doesn't move. She hears her voice in her head, but not one sound comes from her mouth. Her eyes search the small area she can see, wondering why this keeps happening to her. Tears flow from her eyes back toward her ears and pillow, as she lies still on her back, helpless and scared.

She wants to fight like she always does, but Ondolemar is in the room. For some odd reason, she feels shame about her situation. How would he react to seeing her thrash and possibly throw herself out of bed? Would he think she's lost her mind? Should she care? She can't stay there forever. She must free herself.

Whatever it is that's holding her down senses her torment and apprehension. He chuckles, relaxing then tightening his hold on her. "Oh, poor Makela. You don't want the Altmer to learn your secret." He laughs again. "Just give in and come to me. He'll never find out."

Her eyes widen in terror at the thought of going to this being. She makes another futile attempt to get off the bed. Nothing. In another attempt to move she grunts. She's still unable to move, but Ondolemar hears her. She has his attention. As he turns to her, Faleen walks in the room and talks to him. Makela is unable to hear what they’re saying. She watches as he nods his head to whatever Faleen is saying and they both walk out the room.

He left without checking on her. Anger and relief flood Makela as she lay there a few more seconds. Closing her eyes, she sighs inwardly.

“Oh, the handsome Thalmor left you behind without a word,” the voice teases. “Such a shame. Perhaps you should just stay with me.”

“Let me go,” she yells, in her head, overwhelmed with anger. “Let me go!”

“Oho, there’s my feisty Makela.”

Frustrated and tired of the voice, Makela stares at the ceiling trying to focus on fighting her way out of this dream. Squeezing her eyes shut and taking a deep breath, she tries to rock her body to the sides. After a few failed attempts, she finally feels her body shift. Opening her eyes and taking another breath, she shifts to the right. The force is great as if the being holding her was throwing her off the bed.

“Oops!” That’s the last thing she hears before crashing into the chair, topping over it onto the floor, then banging into the dresser. “Ow!” She rubs the back of her head, but wastes no time checking for injuries. There’s no way no one heard that crash. She needs to get out of the room before someone comes to check on her.

“I need a stamina potion.” Once she pulls herself to her feet, pain immediately sears through her left ankle. “Fuck!” She groans to herself. “Just one time, I’d like to wake from these dreams without hurting myself.” She lowers her hand to her ankle, attempting to heal it. A light glow emanates off her hand, but not enough to heal. “Fuck it,” she whispers. “I guess I need a healing potion as well.”

She takes a few seconds to look around for her clothes. Nothing remotely resembling them are within immediate sight. “Well, fuck that too, I guess.” She looks down at the white nightshirt; it's a little long in the sleeves, hangs a bit off her shoulders, and the length ends halfway down her calves. “At least I’m not naked.” She shrugs, tiptoeing out of the room, favoring her injured ankle as she searches the hall making sure no one can see her sneaking out.

Surprisingly, she managed to hobble out the keep without being noticed by anyone. Thongvor Silver-Blood must have finally gone home for the night and the guards were so focused on gossiping and complaining, getting past them was relatively easy. Now, where to go. Makela knows if she goes to Vlindrel Hall, Marcurio will try to get her to go back to bed. Plus, he’s probably already moved her supply of stamina potion.

Working her way down to the forge, for some odd reason, Makela sits to take a breath. The short walk has her sweating and feeling a bit feverish. The night air is colder than usual, which is not helpful in her situation. She must get a stamina potion as soon as possible.

Where to go? Arnleif and Sons and the Hag’s Cure are probably closed. The Silver-Blood Inn has been known to carry a few potions now and then, but there’s a chance Vorstag is there for his nightly Black-Briar Reserve. Or he could be headed in her direction. Makela looks up to see him, Marcurio, and Jenassa on the upper path headed to Understone Keep. She eases into the shadow, so they can’t see her.

“They left Argis behind, so I still can’t go home. Dammit!” Sitting in the darkness, she realizes she knows where she can find stamina potion, without bumping into anyone that will fuss over her. After a few labored deep breaths, she heads off to her destination.

******

“Look. if Makela wants to go home, I’ll respect her wishes,” Ondolemar assures Faleen walking back from the kitchen. “I don’t think it’s best for her to be moving around, especially not to ease the mind of an overprotective relative.”

“Thank you for understanding,” Faleen replies.

“I don’t,” he candidly admits. “And I actually don’t care how any of you feel at the moment.” He pauses realizing how rude he must sound. “I just care about Makela. I’ll do whatever I need to for her to heal and get better. If that means she goes to Vlindrel Hall, then so be it. You’re her family, I assume you know what’s best for her.” He starts walking again. “Just keep me posted.”

“You don’t intend to visit her?” She asks wide-eyed and shocked. “Don’t you think she’d want that?”

“Do you?”

“Yes!” Faleen shakes her head in disappointment. “Ondolemar, for such an intelligent person, you are as dense as they come.” She rushes ahead of him muttering something he doesn’t hear.

Turning toward the guest’s quarters Faleen bumps into Marcurio.

“I thought you came to sit with Makela. Why are you out here?”

Faleen angrily holds up a cup of tea. “I can’t get myself something to drink while I’m on guard duty?” She asks disgruntledly.

Marcurio glares at her then decides to ignore her question and change the subject. “Why did you rush out of the house like that? What’s going on?”

Faleen ignores him, continuing down the hall. As they all turn to follow her, Ondolemar walks up. Marcurio’s face quickly twists in concern.

“If you’re both out here, who’s with Makela?”

“For Mara’s sake, Marcurio, she’s asleep,” Faleen replies rolling her eyes.

“She’s having nightmares!” Marcurio yells.

“YOU THINK?!” Faleen swings around shouting. “She’s been having these nightmares for 15 years. Five fucking minutes alone isn’t going to kill her.”

The entire keep falls silent as the four of them eye Faleen. Vorstag takes Faleen’s arm. “What was that about?”

Faleen jerks away from him, glaring. “We wouldn’t want Makela to know you pay attention to someone other than her.” She turns and storms toward Makela’s room.

“Fifteen years?” Ondolemar looks on his face filled with worry. “How? Why?”

“It’s a long story,” Marcurio answers running his hands through his hair. “And it’s her story. If she wants you to know she’ll tell you.”

“Does she remember it?”

“No,” Marcurio replies honestly.

“Then how in Oblivion is she supposed to tell me?”

Marcurio shrugs and walks away.

“The lot of you are a peculiar bunch,” Ondolemar says frustrated with the situation.

“Yet, here you are following us to Makela’s room.”

“Yes! As I am the one that healed her wounds and figured out the cause of her injuries.”

“Do you want a prize?” Marcurio yelps. “A satchel of gold or something?”

“No! I want to know what haunts her in her dreams and why?” Ondolemar retorts. “I want her healed and happy. And a little fucking gratitude from the four of you wouldn’t hurt.”

Marcurio stops, turning to attack Ondolemar, who stands eager for the battle.

“Makela’s gone!” Faleen yells running back toward them. “A chair is knocked over and a few drawers are open in the dresser.”

Everyone is stunned into silence and just as quickly the atmosphere shifts into pandemonium.

“Shit! We have to find her.” Marcurio barks, tense with fear.

“Where would she go?” Faleen asks, shifting from side-to-side.

“To find stamina potion,” Jenassa replies calmly. “Whatever happened in the nightmare has her shaken. She’s going to resist going back to sleep.”

“So, she’s gone home?” Ondolemar frantically asks.

“No,” Marcurio replies. “That’s actually the last place she’ll go. She’ll think I’ve hidden the potions.”

“So where?” Ondolemar inquires. 

“I’ve no idea,” Marcurio mumbles. “The stores are closed.”

“And that will stop her, how?” Vorstag inquires. “She’s a master at picking locks.”

They nod in agreement. Before everyone sets off to look for Makela, Vorstag pulls Faleen to the side. “Something is going on between you, Marcurio and Makela. I don’t know what it is, but it would be best to hear it from you.” He walks away before she can reply.

Unsure how long Makela has been gone they all set off to look for her. Vorstag will look in the upper levels toward the Temple of Dibella, Faleen and Jenassa will check the keep, including Calcelmo’s lab and tower, and the Hall of the Dead. While Marcurio and Ondolemar check the lower level, the marketplace, and the stables. It wouldn’t surprise anyone if Makela has made it to the carriage and slipped out of Markarth. She may be weak, but she’s determined.

******

Due to the tension between them, it doesn’t take long before Marcurio and Ondolemar go their separate ways. They both agree they can cover more territory by splitting up, plus the awkward silence was becoming unbearable.

Shortly after Marcurio exits the gates to check the stable area, Ondolemar crosses over the lower residential area, just past the marketplace. The area is quiet and dark, but not dark enough for him to miss the open door of the abandoned house. His first instinct is to peak in before closing the door, however he hears a crash. He rushes into the dark house to investigate, forgetting the rumors that it was once haunted by Molag Bal.

Inside the now quiet house, he notices a faint light coming from the adjacent room. He steps in to find Makela slumped on the floor, surrounded by bottles of different potions, gripping a stamina potion in her hand.

“Hey, handsome.” Her voice is strained and barely above a whisper."

He notices the dimly lit mage light floating next to her.

“My magicka is still… practically nonexistent.”

He takes the potion and quickly scoops her off the floor.

“What brings you here?” She asks, feebly wrapping her arms around his neck.

“I was looking for you,” he replies carrying her into the next room.

“Lucky me,” she says leaning into his chest. Her face looks tired, almost as fragile as she looked before she passed out.

“What are you doing here, Makela?”

“Stamina potion...”

She looks up into his concerned green eyes. “Can we sit for a moment?” She points to a nearby sofa.

“Makela, we need to get you into bed.”

“I’ve been waiting forever to hear that from you.” She shakily giggles.

Ondolemar’s golden skin flushes two shades of pink; then a third shade when she touches his heated cheeks.

“Wow. I never thought I’d get to see you blush. It looks good on you.”

“Makela!”

“Please, can we sit? …tired. And my ankle.”

He looks down and notices the red swelling on her ankle. “I can heal it after I take you home.”

Makela sighs and attempts to leap from his arms.

“What are you doing?” He tightens his grip on her. “You can’t walk on that ankle.”

“I’ve walked this far.” She pouts.

“All you’re doing is making it worse. Please let me take you home and help you,” he pleads with her. “If you don’t want to go home, I’ll take you back to Understone Keep.” He walks out the door then leans down for her to grab the door handle and pull the door shut. “Where to?”

Makela sighs, defeated and lacking the energy to argue with him. “Understone Keep, for now.”

“Is that where you want to go?”

“It’s a longer walk. So, I’ll get to spend a little more time with you, before the others start hovering over me.”

“I plan to hover as well.”

Makela gasps at his blunt statement.

For now, you need to worry about getting rest to heal.”

“But… “She turns away from him.

“The nightmares?”

She turns back to him, surprised he knows about them.

“I’ve been with you all day. I’ve watched you fight whatever it is in your dreams.”

Makela looks at him almost relieved he knows. She relaxes into the warmth of his chest and closes her eyes. “I'm not going back to sleep.”

Ondolemar doesn’t reply. They spend the walk home in peaceful silence.

******

When they return to Understone keep, Jenassa is standing by the dais. She decides to go find the others, while Ondolemar gets Makela settled. Once she’s comfortable he heals her ankle and checks her other wounds. Afterwards, he hands her the tea Jenassa had made for her.

“When Marcurio returns, I’ll leave you to rest.” He sighs, looking at her.

She doesn’t want him to leave, but she can’t force him to stay. She holds his gaze but doesn’t respond. His eyes are tired, as if he hadn't been sleeping himself. His face is anxious and distressed. "You're worried. Why?" She asks, staring into his eyes. Showing emotion, especially fear, is uncharacteristic for the usually surly Altmer. Makela wonders what could have him so off-kilter.

He releases a tense breath he didn't realize he was holding. For a moment the room feels like it's closing in on him. Briefly gazing at the woman before him, he closes his eyes, leans forward and touches his forehead to hers.

Startled by his action, Makela freezes but waits for his response.

"You left the embassy without a word." Ondolemar chokes out softly.

"I… "

"When you returned, you were badly injured," he continues, interrupting her response. "You passed out, bleeding in the middle of the keep and you’ve suffered through endless nightmares. Then I find you slumped over in a pile of bottles in some abandoned house… " he takes a deep breath before opening and closing his eyes. "Why am I worried? How can I be anything but?"

"I'm sorry," Makela whispers, at a loss for words.

"You needn't apologize. Just rest and get better." Suddenly remembering anyone could walk in on them, Ondolemar pulls away from Makela. “I should get you something to eat.” 

Before he stands, Anton eases past him and sets a bed tray of food on Makela's lap. "I heard a commotion. I knew that could only be about our Makela. I guess she made her escape and had everyone worried." He jokes smiling at Makela. "Once I saw Ondolemar had you… er things under control, I went in the kitchen to get dinner for you. Salmon steak, savory-sweet fried kale, tomato soup, and a baked potato."

Makela’s grateful smile quickly turns into a frown when she realizes what Anton said. "Did you say kale?" She asks looking up at the older man.

The chef smiles. "I did, My Dear. It's good for you."

"You all say that all the time," she murmurs, side-eyeing the offensive vegetable.

"That's because it is." Anton pats her on the head. "Normally I'd give in to your pouting and take the kale away, but not this time. You need to rebuild your strength.

"It will help restore your magicka," Ondolemar adds.

Anton's eyes light up. "Well, what do you know? A mage needs her magicka. Right? Eat up, My Dear."

"Fine." She pouts. "Thank you, Anton."

"You're very welcome." Anton makes his way toward the door, then turns back to her. "Makela, I'm far too old for the scare you gave me today. You're gonna send me to Sovengarde before my time. Please be more careful out there." He replaces his somber face with a smile. "My life would be a lot less bright without you in it." He nods his farewell then leaves the room.

Once alone, Ondolemar gives Makela a weak smile and hands her a fork. "Eat," he orders nodding at the tray.

Makela takes the fork, never taking her eyes off the handsome Altmer. "Thank you. "She briefly looks at her plate then back at him. Desperately wanting to say something, but at a loss for words, she stares at his beautiful green eyes, almost entranced.

Though lacking the ability to string together a conversation, a million things fly through her mind. Most if not all of them pertaining to the man sitting in front of her. What is he doing? Why is he acting so out of character? How long is this going to last?

She continues to stare until she feels the fork being taken from her hand. She startles out of her trance to see Ondolemar taking the fork, then stabbing leaves of kale to feed her.

"Open up," he demands, holding the fork in front of her mouth.

Eyes wide and flustered, she gasps. "Oh no. I can feed myself."

"Not if you keep staring at me," he replies. " At this rate, you'll starve to death."

Rolling her eyes, Makela takes the fork from him.

Before she can start eating, Jenassa returns with Marcurio, Vorstag, and Faleen.

“That was fast,” Makela remarks.

“They were gathered outside the keep door,” Jenassa replies.

“How are you feeling?” Marcurio asks before sitting in the chair next to the bed. Faleen pulls another chair to sit beside him.

“Confused and a little sore,” she answers honestly placing her hand on her bandaged wound. Asking about her injuries would turn into a lecture, so Makela decides it’s best to leave it be for now.

"Now that you’re awake, we can take her back to Vlindrel Hall," Marcurio remarks thoughtfully.

“She can recuperate here,” Ondolemar intervenes. “Jarl Igmund and his staff are constantly watching over her. Additionally, I’m here.”

Marcurio straightens up and levels a glare at the Altmer. “Are you saying we can’t take care of our cousin?” Marcurio asks, trying not to get angry.

Completely composed, Ondolemar faces Marcurio. “Of course not. You all are perfectly capable of taking care of her. But you also spoil her and give in to her whims. The moment she convinces you she’s better, you’ll be back out helping this Karliah, fighting dragons or Mara knows what else for some poor lost soul in need of a hero." He looks at Makela then turns back to Marcurio. “She needs to rest and completely heal before she jumps back into chaos.”

“And you think you won’t give in to her whims?”

“Perhaps one day,” Ondolemar candidly admits. “I can see her having me wrapped around her finger like the rest of you. But not today.” He directs his gaze at Makela. “Today, I still see her blood on my hand and the nightmares. So, I’ll have to resist her charm a little longer.”

Makela’s heart flutters at the thought of him one day being unable to resist her.

He stands and takes her tray. “I’ll take this to the kitchen and have Anton keep it warm. I know she has a lot of questions. I’ll leave you alone to talk.”

“No, wait!” She calls out to him. “You don’t have to leave.”

“Makela, this is a private, family conversation. This is none of my business.”

“It was none of your business when I passed out or when you found me in that house, but there you were.” She looks up at him, her eyes almost pleading for him to stay.

He looks at Marcurio and Faleen, knowing he shouldn’t be there; then looks at Makela’s sweet face. “As you wish, Makela.” He sits her tray on the dresser then returns to her side on the bed.

She smiles brightly and takes his hand in hers.

“Already giving in to her whims. Way to stay strong,” Marcurio jokes.

Faleen bumps his shoulder with hers and shushes him.

They all fall silent for a few minutes. Makela watches both of her cousins, waiting for answers. Unable to wait any longer, she breaks the silence. "Marcurio, do you know what's going on?"

"Not exactly, but I have an idea." Seeing the disappointment in his cousin's eyes, he leans forward. "Will you tell me about the nightmare?"

Makela closes her eyes and takes a deep breath then starting with the most recent event, she recounts her nightmares, sleep paralysis, and the being that holds her in place. By the time she's finished, everyone in the room is visibly stunned. Makela looks to Marcurio hoping for an explanation.

Marcurio runs a hand through his hair and sighs. "Makela, other than that one time, you haven't mentioned your nightmares. Why?"

"Because they're just nightmares."

Faleen heaves an exasperated breath. "That's what you said years ago, then you were... " She's cut off when Marcurio bumps her thigh with his knee.

Makela ignores Faleen's comment. "Marcurio, who is the being in my dreams? Faleen claims to not know but seems to believe you know."

Ondolemar silently observes the cousins. Part of him wanting to believe Makela's story is complete nonsense, but he witnessed her nightmares. He saw the fear in her eyes when she spoke of not going back to sleep. In a world of dragons, Daedra and undead, he knows anything is possible. The woman who's stealing his heart is the living embodiment of what he thought was a Nord myth. Anything is possible.

"Makela, I don't know what's in your nightmares. Shit, it can be a dremora or even a Daedra. I just don't know.”

Makela’s eyes widen and breath hitches in her throat at his answer.

"But I have an idea as to why you're having nightmares and sleep paralysis."

"Why?" She asks curiously, wondering why he’s holding back.

"Vaermina," he answers dramatically.

"The Daedric Prince?!" Ondolemar yelps.

"Don't be ridiculous, Marcurio." Makela groans. "Are you saying Vaermina is punishing me for freeing Dawnstar."

Marcurio's eyes widen as he recalls the time she lifted Vaermina's curse from the people of Dawnstar.

"I'd forgotten about that." He sighs. "That's not what I'm talking about, but that may have exacerbated your… dilemma."

"What do you mean?"

"Phaedra. Do you remember her?"

"No." Makela leans back into the pillows on the headboard, falling into thought. "Phaedra. Phaedra. She was Faleen's friend when we were younger. Everything was a competition, but I wasn't interested. She hated me because magicka came naturally to me and she had to work harder for it. Never mind that her swordsmanship was superior to mine… back then." Makela goes deeper into thought. "Oh! She had a crush on..." Makela's red-hued skin flushes. "She had a crush on Juli… " Makela stops herself, looking at Faleen in horror. "Her aunt was a cultist that followed Vaermina; a Dreamer. She asked her aunt to curse me because she thought I was interested in the man she loved."

"Makela… " Faleen reaches for her cousin, but Makela recoils from her touch.

"No! I'm fine." Comfort from Faleen won't help. Closing her eyes, Makela takes a deep breath. "I… I had a lot of bouts with sleep paralysis. But there was one time… You remember, don't you, Faleen. You both were there"

Faleen gasps at the recollection.

"I can feel the creature holding onto me right now. It wasn't quite like the one from my recent dreams. It was much more horrifying. I looked to you for help. And Phaedra touched me - grinning the whole time. Then the creature pulled me… I guess my soul… I don't know. Later, Mother told me the being had pulled me into Quagmire. I spent days living and reliving the most terrifying nightmares."

“Grandmother called it spirited away,” Faleen tells them. “We didn’t know what was happening at the time. All we knew was it seemed like your spirit or soul had been taken.”

Makela listens quietly, then trembles in fear at a sudden realization. She turns to Faleen nearly in tears. “You knew! You knew Phaedra was a threat to me and you did nothing,” Makela yells at her cousin.

Vorstag and Jenassa stand shocked at Makela’s accusation.

Faleen’s voice catches and tears roll down her cheeks. “I didn’t know.” Faleen gets up and goes to the opposite side of the bed, taking Makela’s other hand and sitting. “I swear on my life I didn’t know.”

Ondolemar’s heart breaks listening to Makela's story. Wanting to comfort her, but remembering how she reacted to Faleen, he simply squeezes her hand. Relief washes over him when she looks up at him with a weak but grateful smile.

"I don't know how I survived that."

"Because you're strong." Marcurio remarks with certainty. "You held on long enough for your parents to find a way to get you out."

"How did they do it?" Ondolemar asks.

"With the help of some powerful mages, Makela's mother sent someone into Makela's dream, Quagmire, to fight off the creature that was keeping her hostage."

"Julian Tullius." Makela recalls.

"Yes. He volunteered. He felt responsible so he entered Quagmire." Marcurio states.

"Is he any relation to General Tullius?" Ondolemar inquires.

"His youngest son," Makela replies, staring off in the distance. "It's funny; Julian was a close friend. He was part of our group. I had no romantic interest in him. Plus, he was enamored with Phaedra. She was so blind with jealousy; she couldn't see it."

“Was your family unable to reverse the curse?” Ondolemar asks.

“No. Not for lack of trying," Marcurio replies. “Phaedra’s aunt refused to reverse the curse. However, the nightmares tapered off after she was dealt with.

“Dealt with. How?”

The three cousins sit quietly, contemplating whether to tell the Thalmor. They’d told him this much. Could they trust him with the rest?

“She’s dead,” Makela blurts.

“Our grandmothers paid the cult leaders a lot of gold to shun her and leave Cyrodiil,” Faleen remarks. “One day she was found dead outside the cult’s compound.”

Makela sits quietly looking at her nails while thinking about the past, Phaedra and Julian. “That doesn’t explain the current nightmares.”

“I was thinking about that,” Marcurio replies. “All these years you've lived with this curse, you've had occasional nightmares, but not to this degree. So, I think it may have something to do with what happened in Dawnstar. What did you do in Nightcaller Temple to lift the curse?”

Makela pauses to recall that event. Without going into detail - to avoid a lecture - she explained everything she did to help Erandur. She told them about her drinking Vaermina’s Torpor, entering Dreamstride and killing the Orcs, Veren Duleri and Thorek. She also told them how she found out Erandur was a former Vaermina follower and was probably the person responsible for the curse.

“Did you talk to Vaermina?” Marcurio asks, knowing she has talked to every Daedric Prince she’s encountered since coming to Skyrim.

“I did.” She hesitates, averting her gaze. ‘She told me to kill Erandur.”

“Yet, he’s probably sitting in the Windpeak in having dinner, at this moment,” Marcurio scolds.

“What does that mean?” Faleen asks.

“I would guess, Makela pissed off a Daedra and now she’s being punished.” He eyes his cousin waiting for a response.

“What would you have me do, Marcurio?” Makela shouts. “Go back and kill the man? Ask for Vaermina’s forgiveness?”

“No, what’s done is done. When we go back to Winterhold, we’ll look for some books on Vaermina at the college library. Before that, I’ll send a letter to your mother and ask for her opinion.”

“My mother?” Makela snaps. “Marcurio, you know full well if you tell my mother about the nightmares she will come here.”

“Yeah.” He stands and stretches. "Perhaps we need someone around that's not so easily wrapped around your finger.” He glances at Ondolemar, smirking. “I’m going to see if the Jarl will allow me to stay in the empty guest room next door. He winks at her before striding out the room. Faleen and the other follow him out.

“Marcurio!” Makela takes a pillow from behind her, ready to throw it at her cousin. Ondolemar stops her and places it back behind her. He gets her tray of food and sits in on her lap, before sitting in the chair next to her. “I hope I get to meet the woman that raised the Dragonborn.”

Makela growls at the smiling Altmer.

“Your food shouldn’t be too cold. Go ahead and eat.”

There's a knock at the door, then Alaric pokes his head in. "Ah, you're awake, Makela."

"Hi Makela," Aria gleefully shouts from behind Alaric.

"He turns around to shush his partner, then turns back to Makela. "How are you?"

Makela tries to paste on a bright smile. "A little tired, but I'll get better."

"That's good to hear." He looks toward Ondolemar. "Do you mind if we have a moment with our fearless leader?"

Makela shrugs, smiling at Ondolemar.

"I'll be right back," he promises before stepping out of the room.

"What is it?" Ondolemar asks once the door closes behind him. He notices Alaric eyeing him suspiciously. “Is there a problem?”

“I don’t know, yet,” Alaric replies.

Ondolemar sighs, squares his shoulders, and focuses his attention on his guard. “Speak your mind, Alaric.”

"What are you doing here with her?" Alaric bluntly asks.

"Where is this coming from?"

"We're concerned," Aria interrupts. "Makela is a good woman. And you're… "

"I'm what?" Ondolemar inquires, frustration bubbling inside him. "Not good enough?"

"Oh, please!" Aria responds, annoyed. "Not too long ago you were offended by the suggestion that you were attracted to her."

Ondolemar takes a deep calming breath and continues listening to his guards.

"What happened to all the talk about not knowing her?" Alaric asks. "And not giving up your career for her?"

"Someone tried to kill her." Ondolemar pauses, thinking. "She could have been lost to me forever. Any resistance I had left faded when I saw her blood on my hand."

Both guards are baffled by his forthright response.

"She's fascinating." His smile is unusually wistful. "The more I try to pretend she isn't, the more she gets under my skin." Suddenly embarrassed, he clears his throat and goes back to his usual stoic self. "Anyway, I plan to use this time she's healing to get to know her better." Ondolemar thoughtfully admits, opening the door to go back in the room. "Your welcome to come in and chat with her for a little while."


	16. Chapter 16

Darkness and silence.

"I'm bored with you Makela," a deep voice utters in an annoyed tone. "I'll find someone more interesting to play with. I shall leave you in peace… for now.

Makela's eyes flutter open. Lying quietly in bed, in her bedroom at Vlindrel Hall, she looks around the room. Once satisfied that she's alone, she crawls out of bed. Her first night home, after spending a few days recuperating in Understone Keep, was peaceful and surprisingly dull. 

In the short time Makela had spent at the keep, she’d already grown accustomed to Ondolemar taking care of her and Jarl Igmund and Raerek doting on her every whim. However, the time had come for her to leave. Due to the much-needed rest and the poultice Ondolemar had given her, the wounds were almost healed and her magicka was almost completely restored. There was no reason to stay in the keep-or even in Markarth for that matter. With that, she decided it was time to return to Winterhold to follow up with Enthir and Karliah.

“I’m starving,” she mutters to herself, placing a hand on her belly. The grumbling of Makela’s stomach felt like it could shake all of Nirn. How could she be so hungry? Anton was constantly sitting meals at her bedside. She wouldn’t be surprised if she had put on a little weight during her time in recovery. She quickly works her way through the house, heading to the kitchen for something to eat; hoping Argis hadn’t left venison behind. With Marcurio and Vorstag out of town and Jenassa spending some alone time with Argis, the house is unusually quiet. A day ago, Marcurio and Vorstag left for Solitude, to take care of personal business. Makela rolls her eyes wondering if this personal business was something, she should be dealing with herself. Both men had been acting mysterious the day they left. _Personal business my ass. Those two are keeping something from me._ She'd have to demand the details from them when they finally meet up in Riften.

Standing at the kitchen table, Makela’s mouth quirks into a smile when she notices a bowl of beef stew. “Aha, Argis loves me after all,” she says grabbing the bowl of stew. She plops down in a seat, amazed that he took the time to cook considering he had plans for the day. He and Jenassa were spending some quality time together, horseback riding. They made a nice couple; Jenassa's sense of adventure complimented Argis' laid-back personality. _I wonder if she could get him to stop cooking venison._ Makela thought to herself, excitedly pulling the bowl toward her as if it was her first meal.

Before the spoon was halfway to her mouth, she’s startled by three loud thuds banging against the front door. Wondering who would pound on her door, she rushes to open it; after grabbing a dagger, of course. In the past few months, Makela had rarely been eager to enjoy a meal. For her eating was simply a way to refuel after a long day. Finally, she wanted to relax with one of her favorite meals -Argis’ famous beef stew; his mother’s recipe. Now; right now, someone has the audacity and bad timing to bang on her door. “This had better be important,” she barks under her breath. Pulling open the heavy ornate door, she looks up to find a tall redheaded Nord towering over her. “Erik!” She blurts in surprise. 

“Makela! Thank the gods,” Erik the Slayer from Rorikstead responds. “I was so worried you wouldn’t be here.” 

The panic in his voice was worrisome. Makela eyed him with curiosity as she let him in the house. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

“I… I don’t know,” he admits, running a shaky hand through his hair. He quickly takes a seat at the table and releases a heavy sigh. “I have no idea how I got here… in Markarth. I don’t remember coming here.”

Sitting across from him, Makela furrows her brow at his unexpected response. “What do you mean?”

The last thing I remember is drinking with some friends at Frostfruit Inn.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “This adventuring thing hasn’t been as great as a thought it’d be.”

“I warned you it wouldn’t be.” Makela scolds, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I know, I know. The first outing was great. I took a few missions on behalf of the locals and a couple of people in Whiterun. The money was quite good.” He chuckles thinking back on something Makela didn’t care to hear about. “However, the requests dried up pretty quickly and so did the money.”

“You can’t rely solely on requests from a small farm town.”

“I know that now,” Erik solemnly admits, looking down at his hands. 

“That doesn’t explain how you ended up here,” she points out sourly, looking over at her beef stew.

“Honestly, I can’t explain that.” He looks up at her.

The innocent look in his demeanor is distressing, but Makela bites her lip and holds back her sympathy. She warned him being an adventurer would not be a life of easy money and whoring around like the characters he reads about in those silly books of his. 

“As I said, I was drinking with friends at the inn when this stranger, Sam was his name, challenged me to a drinking contest. He promised a reward if I won. A staff or something.”

“What would you do with a staff, Erik?” Makela asks curtly.

“Well, I don’t know. Sell it, maybe. I could use the coin.” He sighs, trying to muster up a smile. “Anyway, he offered me a drink from his bottle and I accepted the challenge. After a few drinks, everything went black. Then I woke up in the Temple of Dibella. The priestess, Senna was not too pleased with me.”

“Where is this Sam?” She asks focusing on him.

“I’ve no idea. I asked Senna and she didn’t know who I was talking about.”

Makela leans into her chair and releases a long breath. “Erik, this story of yours is strange and quite unbelievable.”

“I know,” he replies frowning at her. 

“However, strange and unbelievable appear to be a huge part of my life.” She smiles at the Nord, rising from her seat. “Well, let’s go see Senna and try to get to the bottom of this.” She looks back at the stew she’ll probably never get to enjoy before heading out the house. Erik trails behind her, his mouth gaped open in shock. 

****** 

Ondolemar sits quietly in his quarters reading a book. He's so engrossed in the story; he doesn't hear Alaric enter and is startled when the book is snatched from his grasp. "Alaric, what are you doing?" He angrily questions staring up at his subordinate.

"We're going to the Silver-Blood Inn. Would you like to join us?" Alaric asks as if he hadn't just done something to annoy Ondolemar.

"No, thank you. Kindly return my book." 

Alaric sits the book on the end table. "Are you planning to spend your last night here, alone reading historical novels?"

Ondolemar sighs, crossing his legs and leaning back into his chair. "We're going to Solitude for a few days. It's not as if we're returning to Summerset Isle."

"Is that what you want?"

"Don't you?" Ondolemar quirks an eyebrow.

"That wasn't an answer." Alaric sighs with a roll of his eyes as he sits in a chair across from Ondolemar. "But no. I don't want to go back to Summerset Isle. Not yet."

Ondolemar stares at Alaric while unbraiding the three braids in his hair. He notices the hair on the sides are growing in and reminds himself to trim the area before bed.

"I want to see more of Tamriel. Makela has told me wonderful stories about Stros M'Kai. I want to see it for myself."

"Makela talks to you about Stros M'Kai?" Ondolemar runs his fingers through his hair to loosen any missed tangles. "Why?" 

"Regular conversation, I suppose. We had a nice chat a few days ago when I visited her. It's her favorite place. Her grandparents were raised there."

"Is that so?" Ondolemar sinks into his seat. "What else did you talk about?"

"A variety of things," Alaric states. "Nothing really important. Makela and I have a friendly relationship, but I'm sure she limits her trust when she's with me." He frowns thinking about the possibility that he and Makela will never be friends. "It doesn't matter how nice she is or how much she may like me; she still sees a Thalmor."

"Yes, of course, she does." Ondolemar waves his hand gesturing toward Alaric’s armor.

Alaric clicks his tongue, staring at his superior's naivete. "Ondolemar you are not a simple man. You must notice she cuts off conversations or says just enough the get out of certain questions. That's a lack of trust. That's because we're Thalmor."

That's not true," Aria blurts entering the room. "Makela is an open book."

"Correction. She’s a half-open book." Alaric states realistically, knowing this isn’t something Aria wants to hear. “She tells you just enough to make you feel like you’re a part of her circle.”

Ondolemar runs his hands through his hair, frustrated with the conversation. His pronounced sigh is dragged out dramatically. "Why are you saying this, now, of all times? You've been pushing me at her all this time, and now you're calling her a liar?"

"I didn’t call her a liar," Alaric retorts. "I said she doesn't trust Thalmor, and why should she? I’m only speculating, and as we all know, one _did_ try to kill her.”

"What are you talking about?" Ondolemar leaps from his seat, stunned from the guard’s comment.

"Dammit, Alaric," Aria barks, shaking her head in disappointment. "Why would you tell him?!"

"He needs to know, if, as he claims…” Alaric deliberately looks at Ondolemar before returning his attention to Aria. “…he wants to get to know her. Makela will never tell him herself."

"Who was it?" Ondolemar demands. Filled with fury, he starts pacing.

"Ancano." Aria nonchalantly tells him as she takes his empty seat.

"Why don't you know this?” Alaric bites in annoyance, “You are the head Thalmor Justiciar; a high-ranking officer. Shouldn’t you be privy to certain information.” He shakes his head at Ondolemar. “Wait! I know why. You were too busy trying to keep Makela away from Estormo when Ancarion told us the story.”

“Ancano tried to kill her a few weeks ago. He even sent Estormo to Labyrinthian to kill her.” Aria explains. “You recall the story about the beautiful Redguard that hit him with a… " She pauses to remember. "It’s so hard to recall anything Estormo says because it's so easy to ignore him." She giggles to herself. "A staff. She hit him with a staff."

"Estormo said he went to retrieve the staff," Ondolemar reminds them.

"Yes. With orders to kill whoever got in his way." Alaric clarifies. "Makela is alive because she's clever."

"Maybe Estormo and Ancano are both alive because Makela is all dewy-eyed over a certain someone." Aria stares pointedly at Ondolemar.

"Ancano is still alive?" He suddenly stops pacing. " Why? Where is he?"

"You’ll have to ask Makela why." Alaric shrugs. "He's imprisoned in the Castle Dour Dungeon. I imagine he'll stay there until the Imperial Legion decides what to do with him."

Ondolemar plops down on a sofa, crossing his legs. From across the room, Alaric and Aria can see Ondolemar’s brain working overtime. He has a lot to process in a short amount of time. After coming to terms with his feelings for Makela he now learns she has a reason not to trust him. She’s never had a reason to trust Thalmor; but there's a part of him that hopes she sees him as more than just a Thalmor Justiciar. Rubbing his chin in deep thought he ponders how he should deal with Ancano. Killing him would be too kind. Would Makela want that? She left him alive for a reason. However, he’s alive and well but not back with the Thalmor. Why? He recalls Estormo saying something about Ancano being left on his own if he failed his mission. His eyes crinkle as his mouth turns up in a wicked smile. "Castle Dour Dungeon," he murmurs to himself before closing his eyes.

After a few seconds of watching Ondolemar, Aria leans forward, resting her arm on her thighs. "What are you thinking?"

Ondolemar slowly looks at his guards. "I’m not quite ready to share. I need to talk to Makela." The smile never leaving his face.

"Exactly!" Aria shouts excitedly.

"Right now?" Alaric’s eyebrows furrow, "Have you finished your reports?"

Ondolemar gives him an admonishing look.

"Oh, come on!" Alaric growls, throwing his hands up. "I want to spend as little time as possible with Elenwen. Have these reports done so we can get in and get out." He sighs, shaking his head. "Why in Oblivion did she call this random meeting? She's up to something."

"I agree," Ondolemar admits. "However, I need to see Makela before we leave."

Both guards give him strange looks; Aria’s coupled with a pleased smirk, and Alaric with the corners of his mouth pulled as far down as he can manage, his eyes threatening to roll to the back of his head.

"Why are you looking at me like that? You both know, she won't be here when I return. She's feeling better. Knowing her, she'll probably be out of Markarth at first light.” Ondolemar stands and starts pacing again. “That woman lacks patience," he huffs to himself.

The guards just watch and listen.

"You say she doesn't trust me, and that wretched bastard tried to kill her," he shouts, stopping to look at Alaric.

"I didn't say she doesn't trust _YOU_ _!_ ”, Alaric corrects, stressing the last word. I said she probably didn't trust Thalmor."

"So, what am I? Some bar wench from a local inn?" Ondolemar asks sarcastically.

"Oh, that would be interesting to see." Alaric closes his eyes and lets his imagination run.

Aria throws a wine bottle cork at Alaric, the object bounces off his head and he winces in surprise, she turns to Ondolemar. "She trusts you. If she didn't, Marcurio wouldn't let you anywhere near her."

"As if I'd let him or anyone else stop me."

"That wasn't the point." Aria stands and pulls Alaric from his seat. "I'm parched and this conversation is nonsense. We're off to the Silver-Blood Inn to get almost drunk and flirt with Aicantar. Although, now you have me thinking about bar wenches." 

"Me, too," Alaric chimes in.

Aria opens the door, then pushes Alaric out. "Feel free to join us… after you've confessed your feelings to Makela."

"I'm not about to… "

"Hush. Makela is a great person who can probably have anyone she wants, and she chooses you. The Dragonborn wants you. The enemy… an elitist, surly Thalmor Justiciar who didn't realize how special she was until she almost died." She continues to hold Alaric out the door with both hands.

Ondolemar’s mouth drops at the harsh truth of Aria's words. 

"Go talk to her. Get to know her, a little… it's not like you have a lot of time." Aria pauses, thinking over the past few days. "Why didn't you try to get to know her while she was here recovering?" She groans, glaring at Ondolemar. "You know you two need to learn how to better utilize your time together. Dragons, Daedra, and who knows what else are constantly after her and you two dolts haven’t gotten past the hand holding stage. How disappointing." She remarks in disdain.

"Okay, that's enough, Aria. You're done." Alaric interrupts, peeking over Aria's shoulder. "Tell her you'll miss her while you're apart." He tells Ondolemar as he drags his partner out of the room.

After the door closes, Ondolemar drops on the couch, then immediately stands. He walks to his wardrobe and pulls out a change of clothes. "It's now or never, Ondolemar." He breathes deeply.

****** 

The click-clop of Imperial steel boots echo throughout the halls of Castle Dour's dungeon. Used to sounds, Ancano sat quietly, facing the wall of his cell, reading a book. Although, he was still a prisoner he was treated more like an isolated boarder. He was no longer wanted by the Thalmor and there was no way the Legion would ever set him free. Until General Tullius decided what to do with him, he was left to his own devices. He was even afforded a daily walk around the Castle Dour battlements; shackled and in the presence of four armed guards.

Aside from Legate Rikke and General Tullius, most of the Imperial soldiers and guards stayed away from Ancano. Therefore, he didn't notice Marcurio approaching his cell door. 

"Interesting book?" Marcurio's voice echoes slightly in the dungeon. 

Not easily startled, Ancano calmly turns to face his new guest. “An unexpected pleasure. To what do I owe this visit?"

"Did you not ask to speak with Legate Antonius?" Marcurio asks, cocking an eyebrow at the Altmer.

Ancano takes in the Imperial mage, fully dressed in his Legate armor. "Oh, yes. You're her cousin. I’d forgotten. How unfortunate." He sighs dramatically to himself then quickly smiles. "To be honest, I meant the Dragonborn."

"I see." Marcurio pulls a chair in front of the cell door and sits. "Your letter was addressed to Legate Antonius, not the Dragonborn. You must be specific. We come from quite a large family." Marcurio's face is blank but somehow confident. He stares at the former Thalmor and cracks a crooked smile. "Well, given that I'm here - and she's not coming - how can I be of assistance? Moreover, how can _you_ be of assistance? Your letter said you had useful information about the Stormcloaks. I'm dying to hear it."

Folding his arms across his chest, Ancano rolls his eyes. "The information is for her only."

"She’s not coming," Marcurio asserts. He thrums his fingers on the arm of his chair, already bored with the conversation.

"Then she doesn't get the information." Convinced he has the upper hand, Ancano smirks conspicuously at Marcurio.

Marcurio sits quietly, pondering Ancano's words. Suddenly he stands, the chair legs dragging across the stone floor. "So be it." He starts walking away. "It was a pleasure."

"Wait a minute!" Ancano leaps to his feet, surprised at how easily Marcurio gave up. "That's it?!"

Marcurio pauses and looks over his shoulder at the Altmer. "I didn't come here for mind games.” He says starting to leave. Just before he ascends the steps, he looks back at Ancano. "If you truly have information that will be useful to us, pass it along to General Tullius." 

Ancano stands stock-still as he listens to the retreating footsteps of the wrong Legate Antonius. "Now what, Ancano? I must get her to speak to me." He angrily tosses his book on his bed.  

****** 

"Why Markarth?" Alesan whines in a playful manner. "It's so… "

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Vorstag cuts him off. "Rocks, rocks, rocks," he mockingly jokes, ruffling Alesan's hair.

All five children excitedly follow Vorstag through the marketplace.

Alesan pouts at the man the children have grown to love as an uncle. "Noooo! It's just so boring there."

"Markarth literally a piece of Tamrielic history," Vorstag chuckles at the young boy.

"Yeah, the piece Calcelmo won't let us see," Lucia adds, still harboring anger for a time the old scholar refused to allow the children to visit his museum. She glares ahead as if Calcelmo is in front of her. "At least, here, we're allowed to go to the Bard's College."

"Yeah, but in Markarth, the guards will let us use their dummies when we want to practice our swordplay." Aventus turns to Vorstag pretending to fight him with an invisible sword."

"We can use the practice dummies at Castle Dour," Blaise adds. His face sours as he's in full agreement with Alesan about Markarth.

"True, but General Tullius is… " Aventus cuts off his remark and looks around as if the General could be lurking nearby. “…creepy.”

The other four children nod in agreement.

"Well, I'm happy to go to Markarth," Sofie gladly admits, grinning ear-to-ear, with a calculating glint in her eyes. "We'll finally get to meet Ondolemar." The shrewd young girl had made it her mission to meet the person that had eased his way into her mother’s heart.

"Yes!" Alesan yelps at Sofie's proclamation. 

"No!" Vorstag barks. His tone warning them that Ondolemar is off limits. "No, no, no!"

"Yes, yes, yes," the children teasingly sing back at him. All bouncing around, now suddenly excited about going to Markarth. 

Vorstag laughs as he watches the children joking and playing around. Suddenly he senses someone watching them. Not wanting to alert the children, he slowly turns his attention to the Fletcher. He sneers, then turns back to the children. "The last one to the wagon has to recite King Olaf's Verse," he shouts taking off in front of the children. They each disgruntledly shout, chasing after him. Vorstag takes another quick glance toward the Fletcher as he leads the children past the shops, to the gate.

Leaning against the stone walls of the Fletcher, Varen watches Vorstag from the shadows. "Well, he's still the same Vorstag," the Imperial chuckles, but he's unable to mask the venomous bite in his words.

"He knows you're here." Legate Rikke steps out of her own shadow and faces Varen.

"I know. I could sense it." He steps out of the shadow and focuses his attention on her. "Who are the children?

"Locals," Rikke replies, suspicious of his presence. She steps fully into the sunlight, silently urging him to follow.

Varen raises an eyebrow in disbelief. "Really? Why would he spend time with them?"

"I think he's taken a liking to their mother." She knows her cool response may raise suspicion, but she hadn't intended on being interrogated by this man.

Varen nods his head, satisfied with her answer. "That's one way to get a woman's attention."

"It is." Rikke watches General Tullius' oldest son, hoping he won't ask too many questions. She could lie all day for the sake of Makela and her children, but she'd prefer Varen just walk away. 

"Well, Legate Rikke, it was lovely to see you." His smile is bright, but lacks actual emotion, as he walks towards the stairs leading to the upper levels of Castle Dour. Once he's out of sight, a sigh of relief escapes her. 

"Rikke," Marcurio calls out to her from behind. "Is everything okay?"

Legate Rikke takes his arm leading him to the marketplace. "Hurry! Varen was just here."

"Really?" Marcurio furiously spins around looking for the Penitus Oculatus soldier. "Where did he go?"

"You have no time for this," Rikke snaps, forcing him to focus his attention on her. "I caught him hiding in the shadows watching Vorstag and the children. Get them out of here, now."

Marcurio's anger turns to concern. "Thank you." He starts walking away then turns back. "I have to talk to the General."

Legate Rikke walks to him, leading him toward the side gate and down the steps. She says nothing until they are outside the gate and walking toward the stables. "General Tullius will be in Whiterun in a few weeks. You can talk to him there." 

"At least let him know I was here."

"I will." They quickly walk to the stables. Once there they all say their goodbyes and part ways. Heading back to the main Solitude gate, Rikke bumps into General Tullius.

"Legate Rikke. Was that Legate Antonius that carriage? Why didn't he stop by my office?" He stands, watching the carriage drive away.

Legate Rikke takes a long breath before responding. "Sir, I caught Varen hiding in the shadows spying on Vorstag and Makela's children."

General Tullius pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to pinch the headache Legate Rikke has just given him. "Fine!" In a fit of exasperation, the general throws up his arms and leaves. Over his shoulder, he orders Rikke to set up a meeting with the emperor and Commander Maro. He has simple demands for the ruler of the Empire - get a reign on Varen or assign another troop to deal with the Stormcloaks. Son or no son, he refused to allow Varen to be a threat to his soldiers, again. 

"Oh. And send a letter to General Antonius," he orders Rikke. "Legate Antonius may need her father, soon." He frowns at the thought of needing to protect one of his soldiers from his child."

****** 

Just below the steps to Vlindrel Hall, Makela stares up at the cloudless blue sky as she walks back home. The chat with Senna yielded no pertinent information. The priestess had spent more time insulting Erik for his forgotten drunken night, than answering questions. In the end, Makela left the Temple of Dibella short 20 gold coins, after agreeing to make an offering just to get Senna to stop shrieking at Erik.

Makela turned to her sullen companion. "I am bogged down with my duties and other favors." Before Erik's face can fall any further, she smiles at him. "But I will help you get to the bottom of this." 

"Makela, are you sure?" Hope lights up the Nord's face.

"Yes. You are a friend in need. I will see you through this."

Overwhelmed with relief and excitement, Erik lifts her into the air, spinning around. "Thank so much, Makela."

She forces another smile, hiding a grimace as the excited man squeezes around her waist a little too hard, adding pressure to her still-healing wound. From the side, they hear someone clearing their throat. They turn to see an unimpressed Ondolemar glaring at Erik.

"Are you going to tell him he's hurting you, or should I?" Ondolemar asks, angrily tapping his foot against the pavement. 

A bright smile that could light up the night sky spreads across Makela's face. "I think you’ve already told him." Her giggle is light and infectious. 

Flushed with concern, Erik immediately but gently sets Makela on the ground. "By the gods, Makela, I didn't realize I was hurting you. I'm so sorry."

"It's fine. I will survive," she reassures Erik, smoothing out the fresh wrinkles on her dress.

"It is not fine," Ondolemar yelps. "You are still recovering from… "

Makela quickly takes Ondolemar's hands, shushing him. "I'm fine." She looks up into the Thalmor's eyes with a reassuring smile. "I'm fine. I promise."

Ondolemar releases a steady calming breath and accepts her word. Whatever uncertainty he felt after his conversation with Alaric, dissipated the moment her hands wrapped around his. "Very well." He eyes Erik suspiciously then looks at Makela. 

Sensing jealousy, she gives Ondolemar a curious look, never breaking her smile. After a few seconds of awkward silence, she introduces the two men before giving Ondolemar a partial explanation for Erik's visit. At the moment, he didn't need the full account. Plus, that was Erik's story to tell and he didn't seem eager to tell it.

Still holding Ondolemar's hands, Makela faces Erik. "As I was saying, I will help you, but I can't do it immediately. I have other commitments."

Erik gives her an understanding nod as Ondolemar stands quietly listening.

"You are welcome to come with me to Winterhold and Riften. Jenassa and I could use the extra blade, while Marcurio and Vorstag are off dealing with other business." Feeling Ondolemar's hand tense, she looks down at their connected hands, then back to Erik. "I will take care of your expenses and compensate you for your work." She pauses a few seconds to think. "How much do you get paid for your adventures?"

"One hundred, sometimes 125 gold coins," he excitedly admits. "Once I was paid 150 to chase a giant off someone's homestead."

"Oh! Okay." Makela suppresses her shock that Erik is taking such low paying jobs. "I will pay you 350 gold a week plus expenses while you're helping me."

Erik and Ondolemar both gasp in shock.

"When I start helping you, I will lower your wages to 250 gold plus expenses."

"Makela, that's too much," Erik says, ready to ask her to reduce the pay.

"No, it's not. You will fight hard for your wages. You will not partake in any drinking games while you are in my service. Do we have an agreement?"

"Y… yes. Of course, Makela." His smile is wide and full of joy. "Thank you. I won't let you down."

"I know." She answers back confidently. She looks up toward Vlindrel Hall then back at Erik. "You are welcome to my spare room."

"Thank you." Erik looks at the Altmer that has checked out of the conversation. "I think I'll stay at the Silver-Blood Inn."

Makela frowns at him.

"I won’t drink," he promises. 

Makela pulls a satchel of gold from the pocket of her dress. "Tell Klepper I sent you."

"Makela, I can pay for my room."

"You are officially in my service, Erik. I'll pay for your expenses."

Erik takes the gold, thanking her again.

"Get a good night's sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

They part ways as Erik heads off to the inn. As soon as he is out of sight, Makela looks up at the handsome elf holding her hand. Instantly a smile takes over her face. 

After witnessing a stranger lift her in the air and hearing that he'll be with her on her next journey, Ondolemar feels the urge to be his usual prickly self. However, one look at the sparkle in her eyes and his icy facade melts. He's always believed she may be able to break him; drive him away from his goals and make him question his values, yet now he thinks or perhaps knows he's willing to take that chance.

"Were you out for a stroll?" She asks, interrupting his thoughts. 

 "No. I was looking for you," he responds, keeping his voice calm.

"Is that so? Are you here to check on my wounds?"

"No. I want to talk to you." He focuses all his attention on her.

Biting her lip, she eyes him curiously, then looks around him. “Where are Aria and Alaric?”

“At the Silver-Blood Inn.”

Makela's eyes roam his body, admiring his casual dress - black trousers and a dark gray long sleeve tunic. "You wear a lot of dark colors," she says in a flirtatious tone, meeting his eyes.

"You as well," he counters looking her up and down taking in her midnight blue dress; three-quarter sleeves with a sweetheart neckline. His eyes are drawn to the Amulet of Akatosh that settles just above her barely hidden cleavage. He slowly trails his eyes up to meet hers.

Makela smiles shyly under the heat of his intense gaze. Taken aback, she realizes there’s something sensual in the way he looks at her. A cool breeze rustles his loosened white locks; still crinkled from the braids he’d just taken down. She hisses at the sight of what she perceives as near perfection. “You can do this,” she mumbles to herself, turning away, then leading him down the stairs heading to the marketplace. There’s a twinge in her chest coupled with a strange hollowness that nearly leaves her dizzy.  She slightly clutches her chest, hoping he doesn’t notice. “Can… can we take a walk?” The Dragonborn stutters pulling him behind her, not waiting for an answer. 

The late afternoon is perfect for a quiet stroll. The sun still shines brightly over the quiet town, as Makela and Ondolemar walk around in comfortable silence. She is acutely aware that instead of releasing her hand, he tightens his hold; something he does more often, in recent days. Occasionally, she points out a building or sign that triggers a memory from the time she spent in Markarth as a child. The stories she shares intrigue him even more. Possibly making it harder for him to deny these burgeoning feelings he's been trying to keep locked away. 

Eventually, she leads him to the Silver-Blood Inn. As much as she hates to end this beautiful moment, Makela doesn't want to be greedy with his time. 

As she heads toward the door, Ondolemar tugs her closer to him. “What are you doing? Why are we here?” He looks around puzzled.

“I thought you'd want to go to Alaric and Aria.” She pauses, looking up at him, thrown off by his reaction.

“Why would I?”

“Do you want me to walk you back to Understone Keep?”

“Walk me back to Understone Keep? He inquires raising a brow. “Why?”

“Because your guards are in here, having a good time.” She points to the inn. “Apparently you don't want to go inside.” A look of confusion forms in her eyes.

He furrows his brow pondering her words, then a wry smile spreads across his face. “Makela, I understand you are the savior of Markarth, but I'm perfectly capable of walking back to Understone Keep on my own. I do it all the time when you're not around,” the Altmer quips.

“Oh!” She frowns at his comment, suddenly offended and possibly sad. She loosens her grip on his hand, beginning to step away from him. 

His eyes go wide as he feels her pulling away. “What are you doing?” He tightens his grip, pulling her back to him. 

“You said you could walk yourself home.” She responds, restraining her emotions.

“Home is Summerset Isles,” he retorts sarcastically. “I said I was perfectly capable of walking myself back to Understone Keep.” As soon as the last word leaves his mouth, he’s immediately apologetic.

Closing her eyes, Makela tilts her face toward the sky, trying to suppress the emotions bubbling within her. 

 _“She takes words and actions to heart,”_ Ondolemar recalls Marcurio's words from the day they talked at the Silver-Blood Inn. “I apologize, Makela,” Not use to offering apologies, his voice cracks. “Please. forgive me.” If she were anyone but the woman that’s been driving him mad for several weeks, he'd probably walk away from the bundle of confusion and emotions standing in front of him. “I said I could walk myself back, not that I would… or wanted to.”

She doesn't respond. 

Ondolemar releases a strained breath before facing her. “Makela, you’ve shown me almost every nook of this town, as if I haven't been living here for what feels like a lifetime. I appreciate the tour. However, we haven’t talked about the reason I came to see you.” 

She opens her eyes to see him anxiously waiting for a response.

"What do you want to talk about?"

"You." He turns on his heel, pulling her through the marketplace and up the stairs. She follows him without hesitation. “You're a very confusing woman.” He leads her up two more flights of stairs, then stops outside the door of Vlindrel Hall and looks at her. He stares at the door, taking a deep cleansing breath. He knows going in her house could be a test for him. He already wants her in ways he never expected. Auri-El knows he couldn't be sure he wouldn't act on those wants, once inside her home. However, he’s convinced himself to take things slowly. “Invite me in,” he politely commands. 

Heart pounding in her chest she looks up at him for reassurance this is happening.

“Come now, Dragonborn.” He bends down to her ear with a sultry whisper. “You can do this.”

The heat creeps up her face so fast, she nearly faints. “Did you read my lips, earlier?” 

“I did.” He confesses with a light chuckle. “I do all the time. It amuses me to know I can drive you to talk to yourself.”

She turns her face into his chest to hide her blush.

He enjoys her closeness for a few moments. “Do the good people of Skyrim know how easy it is to make their Dragonborn blush.” His body shakes with teasing laughter. 

“No!” She leans into his muscled chest more to feel him than to hide from him. Muscles? She's always known he felt strong, but now in his casual clothes, she can really feel him. His body is lean but muscular, not at all long and lanky like she imagined. She inhales the faint scent of citrus which makes her want to wrap herself around him. 

He's close; he’s always close, but it’s different this time. All the hand holding, sparks and other close moments… she never allowed herself to pay any real attention to them. She never allowed herself to focus on the closeness because she knew… No, she thought nothing would ever come of it. Now here he is asking for an invitation into her home. She can no longer deny herself the awareness of his presence; the tingles and goosebumps that she feels when she’s pressed against his body.

“Are you going to invite me in?” He gently purrs as he absentmindedly rubs her knuckles with his thumb.

She regains her composure, pulling away from him. “Are you a vampire?”

“Of course not,” he answers hesitantly, baffled by the question. “I think if I were, I would have devoured you ages ago.” He laughs as he watches the red hue in her cheeks darken.

“You’re evil,” she whispers.

“Possibly.”

Makela waits for the heat to fade from her cheeks, then looks up at the handsome Altmer. “Okay. Would you like to come in?”

“Yes. Thank you.” He smiles down at her. This smile is different; it reaches his eyes, lighting up his face.

 _"Mara, save me. I don't think I could handle seeing this smile on a regular basis."_ Makela thinks to herself. She pinches her thigh, to prove to herself this is real and not a fantasy she's living out while floating around Oblivion. Would she know if this wasn't real? Would she care? She opens the door and leads Ondolemar into her home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. This has been a very busy summer. 
> 
> Thank you for reading my story.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter is 100% Makelemar.

After giving Ondolemar a brief tour of Vlindrel Hall, Makela leads him to the dining room. He looks around the room, then sits on the sofa in the sunken floor near the hearth. After handing him a cup of Honeyberry Tea, she sits in a chair across from him. For a moment her mind blanks and she can only think about how relieved she is she had Argis move the table that sat in front of the fireplace. She often wondered why Raerek put so many tables in the house. Did he expect her to host dinner parties or something? A rug, a small sofa, and a few throw pillows were perfect for relaxing near the fire.

“You have a lovely home,” Ondolemar says interrupting her thoughts. It was no different than most of the houses in Markarth. Argis spent more time there than she did, so she left most of the decorations to his liking. Meaning most of the furnishing was made of stone or wood; and in that case, it was incredibly dull to _her_ liking. Although she did insist on having the sofa and her bedroom furniture made and delivered from Solitude; she needed a few things that reminded her of home.

“Thank you,” Makela replies bashfully. She sits quietly a few moments trying to think of something intelligent to say. “You looked like you're beginning to relax more around people in Understone Keep.” She takes his hand, lacing her fingers with his.

“I guess I am… surprisingly. That’s because of you. I tend to prefer to keep to myself.”

I don’t know why, but it makes me happy that you’re getting along with so many people.” She goes quiet, again, before changing the subject. “I was surprised to see you there … outside earlier.”

“I noticed.” A slick confident smile spreads across his face.

“What do you want to know about me?” She asks, looking Ondolemar directly in the eyes. She relaxes a bit. She's in her own home, she shouldn't be a nervous wreck, even if she's sitting next to the one person that gives her butterflies and tingles at the same time. _Be strong, Makela._

What _does_ he want to know? Now that he’s in the moment, what would move him to the next level? He sits a few seconds in thought. What exactly does he mean by getting to know her? From chatting with others around town, he knows a few things she never brings up; Makela is from a prominent noble family and she's adopted children from throughout Skyrim. He knows that she's well-loved and admired by many.

From his perspective, he knows she's intelligent, brave, kind, reckless, and clumsy. She makes him genuinely smile; something he never does. She makes him look forward to things that have nothing to do with being a Thalmor.

In the past several days, Ondolemar had spent most of his free time with Makela. When possible, they took their meals together. He did his evening reports and prepared his morning rounds in her room. They took strolls together when she had cabin fever, which was hard not to get in a castle without windows. They talked all the time. Although, the few things they said about each other never had to do with their feelings.

"Why me?" He asks, getting straight to the point.

“What do you mean?" Makela asks, taken aback by his question.

"Aria is convinced you can have anyone you want. Why do you want me?"

"Because you catch me.” She takes no time to think of a proper response to his question.

"Pardon me?" Her answer makes little sense to him. It’s quite silly. Couldn’t she come up with something sensible like he’s a good conversationalist or he intrigues her? Even something as superficial as a physical attraction would be satisfactory.

“Whenever I bump into you, you make sure I don't fall. Every single time - you could brace yourself to keep from falling. Instead, you hold me and make sure I'm steady on my feet before you walk away."

"That's it?" His expression doesn’t mask the fact that he's surprised to learn she was attracted to him for something so simple.

The perplexed furrow in his brow causes her to smile. Of course, he would need a more complex reason. "Ondolemar, I can't explain the reason for my feelings. The first time I accidentally bumped into you, I felt a spark. I still feel it whenever you touch me."

He nods, understanding what she means.

"Also, you're attentive." She places a finger on her chin then reconsiders her statement. "Well, to be honest, you may be the most oblivious person I know. I guess when you’re not interested in something… or someone, you pay no attention to them. However, when you care, no one is more attentive than you." She smiles widely excited to continue. "This is fun. What else do you and Aria say about me?"

He frowns at her eagerness to make this conversation about Aria. “She thinks you look pretty in blue.”

His answer brings a wider smile to her face. "May I ask the same question?” She asks sitting up straighter. “Why me?"

"I could say your persistence." He laughs at his joke, amazed at how light-hearted he feels around her.

"Hey!" She yelps, offended by his answer.

"I suppose I can think of several reasons. I wish it was something as simple as physical beauty, then it'd probably be easier to pull away from you, but it's more than that. If I had to narrow it down … " He pauses to think. "You’re vivacious and… as my sister would say cheeky."

"Cheeky?" She's stunned by his word choice.

"Yes. Everyone springs to life when you're around." He gives her a thoughtful look. "The way you approach me, despite my job and my behavior. No one else would even… You bounce around Understone Keep as if it's your personal play area."

"I do not," she grumbles, her bottom lip slightly poked out in a pout.

Ondolemar looks at her as if he's unconvinced by her act of protestation. If only she knew how appealing he finds her petulant glare. "You have Jarl Igmund, Raerek, and the staff hopelessly wrapped around your finger. You're playful. Most people with your upbringing are more serious and rigid."

"Like you," she teases.

He scowls at her. "There! Do you see how comfortable you are teasing me? When most people look at me, they see the arrogant head of the Thalmor Justiciar. When you look at me you see… "

"Sparkling green eyes that hold me in a trance."

"Come now, Makela. That's what my sister would define as cheeky." His face lit up with a genuine smile, his whole body relaxing in her presence. "I find you utterly refreshing and irresistible."

_I'm irresistible._ She thinks to herself, suppressing a smile.

"You have a sister?" She redirects the subject to keep herself from blushing.

"Yes. An older sister, Gaelle."

"That's a pretty name. Is she a Thalmor as well?"

"No. She's against the organization and… " He stops short to think about his sister. "She didn't get along with our parents nor did she approve of their goals. She rebelled against everything they stood for. When she came of age, she left Summerset Isle."

"I'm sorry to hear that." She takes his hand giving it a squeeze.

"It's fine." He clears his throat. "She's happily married and living in Stros M'Kai. She and her husband own an inn there."

"That's wonderful. Do you keep in touch?"

"Yes. After she left, we were distant for a while, but now we're very close. We write to each other regularly."

It pleases Makela to hear Ondolemar has a good relationship with his sister.

"What about you? Do you have any siblings?"

"A brother, Divad."

He furrows his brow thinking. "You're named after prominent heroes of Redguard history - Sword Singers."

"Yes. My father is fascinated with Redguard and Yokudan history," she admits embarrassed he figured it out so easily.

"Does your brother live in Cyrodiil with your family?”

"Normally. He’s in Hammerfell right now.” Her face brightens as she thinks fondly about her brother.

He smiles as he watches her in thought.

Snapping back to him, she grins widely. “Okay. What else? These ‘getting to know you’ questions are fun. More please.”

How do you feel about Nords...romantically that is?” He stuns himself with that question. It’s out there, now: he may as well wait for her answer.

_Wait! What? So, he's going there? And he says I’m the cheeky one._ She sits up, smiling at the little hint of jealousy behind the question. “Romantically? Do you have a suggestion?” She giggles.

Ondolemar chuckles, resting his hand on her cheek wanting to change the subject. “You look pretty, today. As always.”

“You don't play fair,” she replies, leaning into his touch.

“I play slow and steady, but maybe it’s time to up my game.”

“Up your game? Why now?”

“I’m leaving for Solitude in the morning. When I return, I’d like not to find you in the arms of another Nord.”

She looks surprised by the candid remark. “Is a Redguard okay?” Makela jokes, eyes bright with mirth. “Maybe a Dunmer?”

Ondolemar laughs out loud at her joke. “No,” he replies, his face shifts to an expression that is serious and dark, and his tone has changed. “I’ve been thinking…” He leans forward a little in his seat. “The time you’ve spent with Gunnar, Estormo, and now this Erik…  perhaps that time should have belonged to me. Therefore, I want it back.”

His statement surprises her leaving her at a loss for words.

“Now that you’re feeling better, you’re planning on going back out to finish what you started with Karliah.” He pauses and stares deep into her eyes. “First and foremost, be careful,” he stresses, rubbing her cheek. “The next time you're in town, I want my payback.”

He removes his hand and takes a deep breath before returning his focus to her. Makela can still feel the heat from his palm. She glances at him wondering what happened to the real Ondolemar.

“I have feelings for you,” he quietly confesses.

The only sound Makela can hear is the beating of her own heart thumping in her ears. “Really?” She mumbles, turning her face toward the Dwarven Armor clad mannequin in the corner.

Sensing she may not believe him, Ondolemar places a long slender finger under her chin, turning her to face him. “I like you and I want to explore these growing feelings I have for you.”

Makela is stunned that he’s confessing his feelings like this. She searches his eyes, looking for a lie lurking behind them.

“Okay.” That was all she could manage, nearly completely lost for words. “Are… are you okay?” She asks confused by his sudden affection.

“I'm fine.” Finishing his tea, he sets the cup on the side table, before making himself comfortable.

The light of the fire gives his hair an enchanting glow. She stares at his hair almost entranced. Before she loses herself, she removes the band holding her braid together. “May I?” She stands then walks behind him. Without waiting for an answer, she proceeds to pull his hair into a ponytail as if it's second nature for her to fix his hair.

He stiffens when her fingers slide over his scalp, wondering why this simple action feels so intimate. The goosebumps marching down his back remind him he's still alive. Relaxing, he presses his eyes shut, enjoying the feel of her hands. “Do you not like my hair down?”

“On the contrary. I love it, but you're killing me,” she casually admits, combing her fingers through his hair. The sensation of his silky locks in her hands feels oddly nice and… forbidden. Makela quickly realizes touching his hair is more torturous than looking at it from a distance. Oh well, what’s done is done.

Makela’s ability to be so open and relaxed with him warms Ondolemar's heart and brings a smile to his face. He knows she has no reason to trust him, yet somehow, she does. That encourages him to try to be the person she sees in him.

"Are you smiling?" A chuckle slips out, seeing his cheeks go up forming a smile. "Does that make you happy?" Finishing up. she fluffs the curly ends of the ponytail before walking back around to face him.

Once in front of him, he catches her hand, stopping her from sitting. "Of course, it does," he honestly admits, the light of the fire shines on his side, his green eyes sparkle like stars in the night sky. "If you learned that you drove me insane, would that not please you?"

Makela shyly looks away knowing full well she'd be over the moon if she knew she had the same effect on him. "I suppose it would," she hesitantly tells him. She turns back to him, the look in her eyes saying more than her words.

For the briefest of moments, he’s lost in her eyes, desperately wanting to know the thoughts that come with that gaze. "And you do drive me insane." He never breaks eye contact. Did he just say that? Is he acknowledging how she makes him feel? Aria would be proud. His serious face slowly fades into a light smile. "You drive me mad. You've been doing so for months."

Hiding a dragon in the stables would be easier than masking the smile that instantly beams across her face. She drives him mad. What could make this moment any better?

"How does it look? The ponytail.” The sparkle in his eyes morphs into a smolder; dark and intense. Beautiful peridot eyes become as dark as rare emeralds in contrast with the flames of the fireplace.

“Beautiful.” She continues staring into his eyes, daring herself not to look away. _Could this guy get any more delicious?_

“My turn.” He reaches up and unravels the fishtail braid that was resting on her shoulder. He smiles as the black curls fall loose. “Lovely,” he whispers. He cautiously pulls her closer to him.

She does him one better and eases her body between his legs. Taking her free hand, she smooths the hair of his faded sides with her thumb.

_So utterly cheeky._ Ondolemar looks up at her, an uncertain smile on his face. What does he do now? Here she stands comfortably between his legs as if the gods had made her for him. Willing himself to live in the moment, he rests his free hand on the slope of her hip.

“I’d like you to do that again. My hair, I mean.”

Her breath catches caught off guard by his request. “Anytime.” She slides her hand from the side of his head to his cheek.

He slowly moves his hand up to her waist, pulling her closer. She smells like snowberries and moon sugar; her scent is almost dizzying. “Why do you always smell so divine?”

Makela stifles a snort, pulling away, she hesitantly lifts her hand pressing it against Ondolemar's forehead. "Where's Ondolemar?" She snaps the question matter-of-factly, no longer believing the reality of the moment.

Ondolemar's eyes blink rapidly, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"My Ondolemar is distant, cold, and hesitates to hold my hand,” She sharply clips her words. “You… you, on the other hand, hold my hand without me initiating it. You sit with me overnight, while I recuperate from injuries. Then you turn around and come to my house… "

Showing no emotion, Ondolemar calmly listens to Makela.

“...your hand is on my waist, for Mara’s sake.” She reaches down and grabs his wrist. "I've imagined my Ondolemar doing this, but he never does. And he probably never will. Are you a Daedra possessing him?"

Ondolemar's behavior has been out of character. He couldn't help himself. He felt at ease with her. To his dismay, he also felt a little jealous and possessive. Recently, he's starting to feel fear and worry. She brought that all to the surface. Rather than accuse him of being possessed, he feels she should take responsibility for her actions.

His lighthearted chuckle is another odd behavior brought on by her. " _Your_ Ondolemar?" Letting the thought of being hers swirl around his mind, he moves a strand of hair from Makela's face. "Perhaps _your_ Ondolemar is tired of watching others fawn over you. Or maybe his... friends?” _Are Alaric and Aria my friends?_ He wonders to himself, thinking of the time they've spent together. The various conversations that had absolutely nothing to do with Thalmor business. _Yes._ "Yes, friends. Maybe his friends are making him face his feelings for you. "He pauses and gives her a serious look. "It could be, _your_ Ondolemar's heart nearly shattered when he watched you pass out from your wounds." He releases a long breath. "This morning, before work, I went to the guest room to get you ready for breakfast. In that short time, I had gotten used to spending so much of my day with you. I missed you."

Makela gazes into his hypnotic eyes, trying to suppress the emotions swarming within her.

"The whole town is in love with you. Why is it so hard to believe that I may…?" He cuts himself off, closing his eyes hoping to calm himself. "I have not been possessed by a Daedra," he finally admits, lowering his head shocked by his display of emotion and vulnerability. "I can't stop thinking about you; your smile, your smell, that twinkle in your eyes. He shakes his head. "You occupy way too much of my mind."

She tilts his face to meet her warm smile. "Is that not a good thing?"

_No! No, it's not. Well, maybe it is._ He thinks to himself. "Makela, I can't keep fighting my feelings for you.

Makela's eyes are suddenly dark and serious. A man who was raised to see himself as superior to her wants her. The head of the Thalmor Justiciar wants her. This next step goes beyond a simple crush. Can he return the feelings of a woman that’s not a Mer?  "I’m not an Altmer." Her heart pounds, nearly beating out of her chest. Whatever comes out of his mouth next could change everything.

He regards her remarks, realizing her concerns. "If you were, you wouldn't be you." He eyes her earnestly. “Will you allow me to… "

Makela wraps her arms around his neck, closing the little distance between them and rests her head on his shoulder. "Yes!" This is different from the moments when she leans into him. Then she remains careful, rarely does she completely relax or give in to her feelings for him. Letting go of her fears she sinks into him. "Thank you for taking care of me when I needed you." Out of nowhere, she blurts the only thing that’s slipped past the overwhelming emotions clouding her mind.

Without hesitation, Ondolemar wraps his arms firmly around her waist and leans into her warm embrace. "Always," he whispers, finally confirming to himself he couldn't imagine another woman making him feel this way.

They sit wrapped in each other for a while, the only sound is the crackling of the fireplace.

"What about Elenwen?" Makela thinks back to the day the ambassador decided to stake her claim on Ondolemar at the Thalmor Embassy.

“What about her?” He finds it extremely difficult to mask the disgust in his tone, but he tries.

“She approached me at the embassy party to make it clear to me that you were hers. I pretended I barely knew you and tried to make her believe I’d been spending time with Estormo.”

“No, no, no.” He doesn’t mean to sound angry, but Elenwen brings out the worst in him. “Did you not just call me your Ondolemar?” He pulls away but keeps his hands resting on her waist. “I am NOT hers. And you… you don’t get to pretend to be with Estormo." _That sounded a bit possessive._ He takes a long cleansing breath, needing to calm himself before saying more. “Perhaps, things… between us should be different.”

Feeling his hands tense up causes her concern.

"I want to… see you? See more of you? Change our relationship?" _What is happening? Am I nervous?_ Struggling with his thoughts, Ondolemar realizes he is nervous. He hasn't felt nervous or uncertain since he was a child. Fear and uncertainty were unacceptable in his house. His parents made sure he understood that on a daily basis. Ugh, now is not the time to be thinking of them. Glancing away from Makela, momentarily, he takes another breath hoping to dispel the nerves. No one has ever stirred up so much confusion in him. Looking back at her he quickly realizes it's not Makela, but this next step that's making him anxious. He had never been in or wanted a romantic relationship with anyone.

Ondolemar has had sexual relationships but nothing beyond that. Things like romance, love, and companionship are not needed for sex. That's why gods gave them brothels and, according to Estormo, maids. This is a big step. Is he doing the right thing? Should he wait a while? Perhaps he should leave things the way they are. They're friends and that's good. Friendship is new territory for him, so it's very good. He looks into her twinkling eyes and imagines that look staring at someone else. No! He rapidly shakes his head hoping to erase that thought before clearing his throat. "Makela, I can't promise to be a better person or change my ways. I've been a Thalmor for a very… " He looks sidelong as if the words he wants to say will suddenly approach him. "I want to be with you, and explore these new feelings together, but I don't know how to do this. My parents are horrible people, so I have no positive examples of how to show affection, love, or any of those things you deserve."

Makela cups his face with both hands cutting off his jumbled thoughts. "I'll show you what I know, and we’ll figure out the rest, together."

Her bright loving smile calms some of the confusion within him.

"I like you.” What she feels goes a little deeper than like, but she’s not about to tell him that. Not yet. “I have from the moment I first laid eyes on you." She continues, easing closer to him, their bodies nearly touching. "This is going to be a challenge… a woman born of Redguard and Imperial nobility in lo…

His eyes go wide as she cuts herself off.

Clearing her throat, she continues, " ...caring for a Thalmor from a noble Altmer family."

He stares quietly, almost in awe of her.

"You admitted you like me. Even if you didn't, I can see it in your eyes and feel it in your touch. You shouldn't feel the need to change for me. I'd like to see where things go between us. Let's take it slow and explore our feelings."

He looks up at her, his face surprisingly grim.

"Is something wrong?" Worry on her face for the first time all day.

"You’ve stolen my moment, Makela," he says dryly.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I… "

Before she can finish her statement, he leans up, pressing his lips against hers with a slow, tender kiss. The unexpected kiss is soft and gentle. Wrapping her arms around his neck, Makela melts into the kiss she's been daydreaming about for weeks, as he lightly glides his tongue over her lips. She releases a soft moan, parting her lips for him. _He is good at this. Is he insane? Now, I’m going to want to kiss him whenever I see him._

Ondolemar slides a hand up her back, gently cupping the back of her head as he deepens the kiss. Mingling his tongue with hers before sucking on her bottom lip. After a few sweet pecks, he ends the kiss.

She follows him as he pulls away. The touch of his lips lingers, leaving her wanting more.

“We’re taking this slow. Remember?” He teases flirtatiously.

"You are absolutely the cruelest person I know." She pouts, trying to free herself from his embrace. How dare he kiss and tease her. Who does he think he’s toying with? When he refuses to let her go, she huffs as she stubbornly turns her nose up and crosses her arms over her chest.

His eyes widen as he sees a glimpse of the spoiled noble, she was raised to be. He's happy to see another side of her, even if it's one she tries to hide from everyone.

"I apologize for my cruelty," he says before leaning in for a quick gentle kiss on the side of her mouth. "Is that better?" His forehead leaning against her temple.

"Maybe." She clicks her tongue signifying she's not satisfied.

He tightens his arms around her and whispers through a bright grin. "Spoiled Princess looks good on you." He kisses her again before she has a chance to protest. "If it's okay with you, I'd prefer to keep her to myself. I don't think the good people of Skyrim can handle a spoiled Dragonborn."

"Ondolemar, I'm… " Makela faces him trying to object to his claim. She would never behave like a spoiled princess. Not here, in front of him. Would she? Had she become so comfortable with him that she could completely be herself? No! She knows there are parts of Makela Antonius that must stay tucked away a little while longer.

He cuts her off with a peck on the lips. "It's settled, Spoiled Princess Dragonborn is mine and only mine. "He titters as if he’s won a prize.

She leans her face into the crook of his neck, somewhat embarrassed by her behavior.

"Lovely. Shall we seal our deal with a kiss?" He half-jokes. Her lips are electrifying. If it were it possible, he'd kiss her all day.

"Evil." She lightly grumbles. "You truly are enjoying this."

He laughs, cuddling her affectionately. "Very well. This one time, we'll close the deal with a hug."

"I hate you so much, right now," she teases, wrapping her arms around him. This playful side of him is making her feelings for him grow deeper.

"I'm glad. I think I hate you just as much." His laugh is casual and free as he runs a hand up her back. "I may hate you for the rest of my life," he quietly confesses to himself.

"You're quite playful, today."

"That’s completely due to your influence," he readily admits. "I don't think I've ever been playful a day in my life."

"I like it." Staring at the curve of his long slender neck, Makela decides to test a theory and try to get a little payback for teasing her at the same time.

"Good. You'll probably be the only one to… "

Cutting him off, Makela kisses him softly on his neck.

The warmth of her lips sends a dizzying tingle down his spine. "Makela!" Ondolemar screeches, his whole body set aflame. He leaps to his feet, pushing her away. _This is not taking it slow._ He thinks to himself.

“Sensitive spot?” She asks with a crooked grin.

“Yes!” His face twisting between anger, confusion, and desire. Who would’ve thought? Never in his life has anyone ever kissed him there. "Makela, the next time you do that, I will be forced to reply in kind." Still feeling the touch of her lips, he places his hand on his neck.

"I'll keep that in mind." She gives him an innocent, sweet smile.

Ondolemar dramatically points at her with his other hand, backing away. "Don't for a moment think I'm fooled by your doe-eyed innocent looks." He is and he knows it. He looks around the room avoiding her suddenly seductive gaze. Maybe it's always been seductive, and he's never noticed. She did say he's oblivious. Whatever the case, it's time to leave before things get out of hand. Should he let things get out of hand? No, not yet. "I'm going to leave, now, before we go too far. Will you walk me out?"

"Yes." She wants him to stay, but he's right; things may go too far. This little crush of hers has already moved leaps and bounds today. Maybe slowing it down is for the best. Makela reaches for his hand. “May I?”

He jokingly slaps her hand away. Giving her a warning look to behave, he reluctantly places his hand in hers. Like a giddy child, she closes her hand around his and she leads him down the hall.

Ondolemar stops, forcing her to look at him. "You must know the kisses changes everything."

"You kissed me."

"It matters not who initiated the kiss,” he states through an impish grin. “It only matters that things have changed."

"Isn't that what you've been doing for the past few weeks? Changing things?"

He looks at her wordlessly, as if he didn't understand her point. Perhaps she's correct, but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t voice the changes.

"So be it… things have changed. I hope they continue to change." She pulls him down the hall and out the door.

Outside, Ondolemar takes two steps down the stairs before turning back to Makela. He gestures for her to come to him and she obliges.

"Be careful out there,” he requests, suppressing his worry. He constantly worries for her safety, when she’s out on her journeys; but she doesn’t need to know that. She has too many burdens, he has no intention of adding to them.

"I will."

"Promise me, Makela." He takes her hand and stares deeply into her eyes. "I'm not a selfish person nor am I naive enough to ask you not to do what needs to be done when you're out. You're the Dragonborn. People rely on you. I respect that."

She smiles at him for being understanding.

"You're beautiful but you're reckless and Marcurio, the person that keeps you grounded, has already left."

"Rude!" She rolls her eyes at his remark. "I like how you tried to soften that offensive comment with a compliment."

"I won't apologize."

"Don't," she pouts. "I just won't kiss you goodbye." She pauses, looking up at him, wondering what this next step entails. "We do get to kiss goodbye, now, right? Don’t we?"

Pulling her closer to him, he kisses her sweetly. "Goodbye Makela."

"Not fair," she groans, her hand over her chest trying to control the pounding of her heart.

"I'll miss you," he confesses, leaning his forehead to hers. "Please be careful."

"Fine, I promise." She tries to grumble through a stupidly giddy smile.

Satisfied with her promise, he places a tender kiss on the tip of her nose then starts down the steps.

"I'll miss you, too," she replies bashfully, as he disappears down the steps.

Leaning against the door, she replays the events of the day in her head. In one afternoon, everything has changed. An invisible line she had drawn between them had been crossed. She knows there's no way she can turn back, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Makela and Ondolemar have finally taken the next step in their relationship. Yay!
> 
> Makela brings out the softer side of our prickly Thalmor. Of course, he's surprised to learn he has a softer side.
> 
> Thank you for reading my story.


	18. Chapter 18

Ondolemar stands on the battlements of Castle Dour enjoying a few moments of peace from Ancarion, Estormo, and their guards. High above the city seemed to be the only escape from his friends and other Thalmor. Here he could think and deal with a pressing matter that had been on his mind since leaving Markarth.

He and the others had been in Solitude for three days but had yet to meet with Elenwen. Upon arrival, they'd received a message the ambassador would be delayed due to unforeseen circumstances. Of course, no one believed her. This was not the first time she had scheduled a meeting only to keep them waiting.

Having traveled from Solstheim, Ancarion made no effort to hide his annoyance with the unprofessionalism of the ambassador. He was constantly letting anyone who'd listen know that Solstheim was not the next town over. Although the Thalmor had enjoyed some of his time in Skyrim's capital, he hated Elenwen hastily calling a meeting then deciding not to show up on time.

Estormo, on the other hand, was quite fine with the situation. Elenwen's delay had allowed him time for several dalliances with some of the locals and a few of the guards from the Thalmor Headquarters. The second night in town, he and Aria had made it a competition to see how many people they could successfully seduce before the end of their visit. As of now, they were both tied.

Resting his elbows on the ledge of the battlements and leaning forward, Ondolemar's thoughts drift from the past few days to Makela. As always, he wonders about her wellbeing, while trying not to worry about her. Even her safety is always on his mind, her nightmares are prominent in his thoughts. Before Makela left, she was sleeping well and had almost no nightmares; but that wouldn't stop him from being concerned. Aside from Marcurio's speculations, they had done nothing to get to the root of the problem and deal with whatever was haunting her. To him, it was imperative that they dealt with it sooner than later.

The bustle of the residents of Solitude hadn't pulled him from his thoughts, however, the sound of approaching footsteps brought a smile to the Altmer's face. Standing up straight, he turned to see three Imperial soldiers walking toward him with Ancano between them.

Ancano's eyes widened in surprise when he noticed his former colleague standing a short distance away. "Ondolemar." The sorcerer tried to hide the shock in his voice. "What brings you here?" For a moment hope lights up in his eyes. Had the Thalmor finally sent someone to retrieve him?

Ondolemar nods to the guards. "Thank you for bringing him out. I realize this is outside of the norm. I appreciate it."

The hope in Ancano's eyes is not missed by Ondolemar, who smiles wider, reveling in the thought of crushing that small hope. "I'm in town for a meeting and decided to check in on you."

"Oh!" Ancano stares ahead determined not to let Ondolemar see the disappointment on his face. He turns away from the Justiciar then immediately turns back. "You're out of uniform," he noted, quickly changing the subject.

Not quite out of uniform he looks down at the black tunic he wears underneath his uniform coat, that is now neatly folded and lying atop the battlement’s ledge. With a slight chuckle he eyes the disgraced Thalmor, who's wearing a basic cream tunic, black pants, and black shoes; his ensemble is complemented by shackles and chains on his wrists and ankles. "Neither are you."

Ancano clenches his jaw, trying not to show anger or any emotion.

The smile never leaving Ondolemar's face, he looks at the Imperial soldiers. "May we have a few moments, please." The soldiers nod in agreement then walk away, staying close enough where they could see the two Altmer. He turns back to Ancano. "So, how are they treating you?"

"Better than I expected," Ancano mutters, rolling his eyes at the situation. "More like a guest than a prisoner."

Ondolemar steps closer to Ancano, looking at the shackles. "I suppose, not completely like a guest." He touches one of the cuffs on the shackles then quickly pulls his hand back. "My my, these are enchanted to drain magicka." His smile fades a bit. "Perhaps the Imperial Legion treat their guests differently from others,” he sarcastically remarks, turning away from Ancano.

The former Thalmor clicks his tongue and huffs. "Are you here to see to my release?"

Ancano's question floats in the air for several long moments as Ondolemar watches the children darting about the area below, playing tag. It irritates the Justiciar, finding it galling that Ancano would believe he, of all people, would care if he was ever released. They've detested each other from the moment they met.

"No." For the first time, there's a hint of coldness in Ondolemar's tone. "Why would I do that?"

"Then why are you here?!" Ancano yelps, drawing the attention of the Imperial soldiers.

Ondolemar raises his hand to let the soldiers know all is well. "I heard you're here because of an encounter with the Dragonborn, so I came to… I don't know… see how you were."

"Why?!" Ancano snaps. "We're not friends."

"True." The calmness in Ondolemar’s features when he faces Ancano is ominous. "I'm curious why you're still alive."

Ancano is taken aback less by Ondolemar's response, but more so by the fury in his eyes. "I don't know," he angrily retorts. "That insufferable woman has been a pain in my ass from the very beginning." He twists his lips, staring at the ground. "I probably should have killed her when the Psijic Order got involved… "

The moment Ancano wished he'd killed Makela, Ondolemar closed the distance between them. Placing his hands behind his back, he continued listening.

"...but she was useful to my goals." Ancano looks up suddenly to see Ondolemar standing in his face.

"How so? How was she useful?"

Uncomfortable with the closeness, Ancano steps back a few paces. "She found everything I needed. I just sat back and waited for her to complete my tasks."

"How very clever of you." One side of Ondolemar's mouth quirks up into a crooked grin. "Perhaps it's a good thing you opted not to kill her after all."

Ancano quietly stares at his old colleague in confusion.

"Although, it's not as if you didn't try," Ondolemar continues, taking a few steps back.

"Maybe." The chains clinks as the former Thalmor places his thumb on his chin in thought. "At the time, I thought of her as my useful idiot."

"Idiots don't discover artifacts of ancient magicka."

"She stumbled upon it." Ancano's tone is defensive. He had always stubbornly believed he would have eventually found the Eye of Magnus and Staff of Magnus, without any outside interference from that woman.

"Nor are they sought out by the Psijic Order."

"Fluke." Ancano drops his hands down, wishing he had more freedom to move.

"If you say so." Ondolemar chuckles leaning against the battlements wall, folding his arms over his chest. "It's quite normal for members of the Psijic Order to come down from Arteum to help random people with various archeological expeditions." His remarks drip with sarcasm.

Ancano watches Ondolemar, annoyance starting to show on his face. "Have the Thalmor decided when they'll have me released?"

"Never." Ondolemar looks toward the soldiers, who seem to be joking and laughing about something. "You've done many foolish things, but you're no fool." His voice his cold and stern. "You knew there'd be consequences if you failed at this." He faces Ancano. "Accept them and move on."

Rage boils within Ancano as he stares at Ondolemar's nonchalant gaze. "Accept that my life's work with the Thalmor is just… gone?" The chains clink more, as he makes limited hand gestures to make his point. "As if I no longer exist?!"

"You don’t. To the Thalmor, nor to anyone that matters. Deal with it." Calm remains in Ondolemar's tone. "It's a small price to pay."

"A small price?!" Ancano barks, once again gaining the attention of the soldiers. "Are you serious?"

Ondolemar nods at them, reassuring he has everything under control. Turning back to Ancano, he quickly closes the distance between them. "Yes!" He snaps through gritted teeth. "Your body still draws breath. You are here, being treated as if you're some nuisance guest of General Tullius' rather than the prisoner that you are. You're given hot meals, books, allowed to go out for leisurely walks. You're merely inconvenienced by shackles," Ondolemar quickly tugs the chain between the cuffs of the shackles jerking Ancano closer to him, "instead of suffering the never-ending torture in Oblivion, that you so justly deserve." He releases the chain with a swing, still glaring at the disgraced Altmer.

Ancano's eyes widen, stunned. He steps back slowly resting his shackled arms against his thighs. Never in the years, they've known each other has Ondolemar shown this much disdain for him. He knew the Justiciar didn't like him, however, he suspected it was more indifference than anything else. The look in Ondolemar's eyes was beyond simple hatred.

"Tell me how you really feel," he retorts with a chuckle.

Ondolemar joins Ancano with light laughter of his own, ignoring the slight tingle in the hand that had grabbed the enchanted shackles. Stepping back to the wall, he looks Ancano up and down. "Another time," he comments, staring him in the eyes.

Ancano takes a deep breath to calm some of the tension. "Not killing me was more than a mere act of kindness," he admits, looking up at the sky, gathering his thoughts. "It was calculated."

"How so?"

"We both know anyone else would have killed me." He returns his focus to Ondolemar. "I had every intention of killing her. I would have but she outmaneuvered me."

Ondolemar sighs, frustrated with the dramatics he knows is coming in a long-winded retelling of Ancano's encounter with Makela. "Let me be honest; I do not wish to hear about your tragic rivalry with the Dragonborn." He pulls himself away from the wall. "I was curious about why she let you live despite you sending Estormo to kill her, before trying to do so, yourself. Now I no longer care." He gets ready to signal the guards but is cut off by Ancano.

"One reason is that she's in love with a Thalmor agent." Realizing Ondolemar lacked the patience for his story, Ancano hurriedly blurts the one thing that would get any Justiciar's attention.

Ondolemar looks at the sorcerer waiting for him to continue.

"When they thought I was knocked out, I overheard her cousin… Marcurio asks if she spared me because of her Thalmor lover."

Ondolemar shows no reaction to Ancano's answer. He patiently allows the elf to finish his thought.

"Of course, she denied it. She claimed it was better to have General Tullius turn me over to the Thalmor to be punished, rather than risk the fragile alliance between the Legion and the Thalmor. Obviously, she didn't know I'd be shunned by the Thalmor."

"They said that much in front of you?"

"As I said, they thought I was out. Don't get me wrong, she's not a complete idiot. She knocked me out before I could hear too much."

Ondolemar looks to the sky, taking a deep breath to suppress his anger. If Ancano calls Makela an idiot one more time he won’t hesitate to release a fireball in the elf’s face and end this madness. He looks around the area before returning his attention to Ancano. "It's getting late." He starts to signal the soldiers again.

"She's part of the Imperial Legion," Ancano adds, hoping Ondolemar will stay a little longer. "The Dragonborn is Legate Antonius."

"Well, having the Dragonborn on their side has got to be a boon for the Imperials." Ondolemar thinks about this new information. Antonius. Antonius. Why is that name familiar? He scours his memory trying to recall why he knows her surname.

"Exactly." Ancano agrees with a look of determination. "Her power is wasted on them. Imagine that power in the hands of the Thalmor. Whoever is lucky enough to have this woman's heart needs to take full advantage of… " Ancano cuts himself off, slowly looking up at Ondolemar, his eyes filled with shock and disappointment.

Except for a slight glint in his eyes, the Justiciar gives no reaction to his former colleague's sudden realization.

"Of all the undeserving bastards," Ancano grumbles, glaring at Ondolemar. "It’s you! The Dragonborn is in love with you." He attempts to pace but is hindered by the limitations of the shackles on his ankles. He quickly jerks around to Ondolemar, almost falling. "She's not just the Dragonborn, she's an amazingly, powerful mage. You can't let that go to waste. You have no idea what I'd do if a person that powerful was blind enough to love me."

"I know exactly what you'd do." Ondolemar sighs, annoyed with Ancano. "You're here because of your lust for power," he scolds, clicking his tongue in disgust. "You've learned nothing."

"Perhaps. But I know the Thalmor would make good use of her and her power."

Ondolemar pauses, dreading the thought of anyone trying to take advantage of Makela's powers. He takes his coat from the ledge. "You'll never find out."

"I'll tell the Thalmor about her." Ancano threatens. "They would love to know the Dragonborn loves their head justiciar."

The tension between the two Mer is palpable. Ancano confidently raises a brow convinced he somehow has the upper hand. Like in his battle with Makela and his chat with Marcurio, the sorcerer has failed to correctly read his opponent.

"You're a disgraced outcast," Ondolemar replies flatly, facing Ancano. "You've been disappeared from all records of existence as far as the Thalmor are concerned."

Ancano stands shocked, facing the realization that the Thalmor really have abandoned him.

"No one - not the Thalmor, your family, or anyone else will acknowledge your existence." Ondolemar's icy glare sends a chill down Ancano's spine. His face seems almost soulless. "Perhaps you still have some ties to the Thalmor, you were a very well-connected, powerful person in our organization." He steps back to give Ancano a full view of his face and body language. "Should any harm come to her, at the hands of the Thalmor, I'll assume you were involved." His eyes darken with rage. "I will find you and I will burn you alive from the inside out."

"You can't be serious."

"Try me."

Ancano can do nothing but stand dumbfounded staring at Ondolemar. "She's not even an Altmer!" he yells.

"That's what she tells me." Ondolemar jokes before waving the soldiers over. "We're done." As he starts to leave, Legate Rikke arrives with Alaric. Ondolemar nods at them both, smiling.

Legate Rikke looks at Ancano before approaching Ondolemar. "General Tullius has agreed to your terms concerning the prisoner."

"Fantastic." Ondolemar's face brightens with a strange joy Ancano has never witnessed.

"What's going on?" Ancano asks, curious and concerned.

"The legion is in the middle of a brewing civil war. Taking care of an unexpected prisoner is an unnecessary burden on their resources. Especially a powerful mage such as yourself. Keeping you drained of magicka alone must be quite costly. So, I've decided to alleviate that burden."

"How do you mean?" Ancano shows fear for the first time since his imprisonment.

"It's quite simple." Ondolemar nods at Alaric who hands Legate Rikke a satchel of gold. "The Legion will continue to guard you, feed you, and keep a roof over your head. However, I will pay for all the expenses for their inconvenience. In exchange, I'll get reports on your behavior, visitors, and other issues I don't care to discuss with you." He steps closer to Ancano. "In other words, you're my prisoner."

"Why?"

"She won't be pleased if I kill you." Ondolemar looks to Alaric and Legate Rikke, who both nod in agreement. "But you should pay for what you've done to her."

"I have another condition," he says to Legate Rikke. "No Thalmor other than my guards and I are to have access to him."

Legate Rikke agrees without debate.

"You can't do this," Ancano cries out.

"Why not? You said she didn't kill you because she's in love with a Thalmor. Then you said she's in love with me. That means you owe me your life." Laughter creeps into his voice as he steps closer to Ancano. "Think of this as me collecting my debt." Turning away, he puts on his coat, leaving Ancano behind with the guards. "I do hope you appreciate my hospitality," the Thalmor yells over his shoulder before disappearing out of sight.

Near the training area of Castle Dour, Aria approaches Ondolemar and Alaric with Ancarion and Estormo at her side. "A courier arrived with a message saying Elenwen will be here in two days."

Unmoved by the news, Ondolemar starts down the ramp towards the marketplace. "Very well. We won't be here. I've had enough of her games. We're going back to Markarth." Flipping the hood of his coat over his head, he heads toward the main gate, satisfied the trip wasn't a complete waste of his time.


	19. Chapter 19

"I don't recall asking to join the Thieves Guild." Makela shouts, looking around the Ragged Flagon Cistern, fed up. Most of the guild members watch in confusion as her usual easygoing attitude is replaced by fury as she unleashes built up anger onto Brynjolf and other guild leaders. Marcurio is to her right with electricity sparking through his hands preparing shock spells. Vorstag stands to her left with two swords drawn. Jenassa and Erik stand behind them with Karliah, all three with weapons drawn, ready to fight. 

Things hadn’t gone as Makela had hoped; not that she was expecting a welcome back party. However, she didn't think she’d be locked out of the graveyard entrance or to nearly getting into a fight with Dirge to get into the Cistern. Not that she wouldn't love to pummel that giant brute. After getting Gallus' journal translated and finally finding out the truth, the guild members had the audacity to question her loyalty in addition to throwing false accusations at her. 

The past few days were filled with endless trials for Makela and her group. Shortly after leaving Markarth they were ambushed by the Forsworn. That was not an easy battle. According to Jenassa it could have been easier if they had only dealt with the Forsworn in the immediate vicinity then left. Unfortunately, Makela had insisted on dealing with the rest, to ensure none attempted to attack them from behind. In theory that was a good idea, until she was attacked by two Forsworn Briar Hearts. Winning the battle and walking away with two briar hearts and loads of gear to sell didn't stop Jenassa from lecturing Makela for the rest of the night about avoiding unnecessary battles. 

The trip from Winterhold was no better. They were attacked by bandits twice and they had to fight a dragon just outside Riften. Perhaps things would have been better if she’d gone to Honeyside to rest before dealing with the Thieves Guild, but as always Karliah begged her to proceed and Makela relented. Several times throughout the entire trip, Makela had considered telling the people of Skyrim to fuck off as she rode away going back to Cyrodiil. Sometimes it’s best to follow your first instinct.

If being ambushed wasn’t bad enough, before leaving Winterhold, Karliah confessed she was involved with Nocturnal. Another damn Daedra. If Makela didn’t know any better, she’d swear someone or something in Oblivion was out to get her. She couldn’t help but wonder if her aunt Sabina was right to worry about her connection to Daedra.

Now everything is coming to a boil within Makela. She has put the needs of the guild above her own. Her assignments with the Imperial Legion, her quest to understand her role as Dragonborn, and her need to find out how she ended up in Helgen; all cast to the side to help the ungrateful group of thieves who stand before her, accusing her of colluding with Karliah to try to destroy the guild. 

"I didn't ask to burn those damned beehives or to sabotage Honningbrew Meadery. You came to me." She harshly thrust her finger at the redhead Nord. "I for damn sure didn't ask to be stabbed by that disloyal bastard you call a guild master."

"Enough of this talking," Vex yells from Brynjolf's side. "Do you want me to get her outta here?"

"I'd like to see you try," Makela growls through gritted teeth. "Come at me. I dare you."

Vex steps to approach Makela but is quickly blocked by Brynjolf. He looks confused by the situation but doesn't back down from his stance against his former mentee. "Why have you brought her here?" He asks eyeing Karliah. 

Makela ignores his question. Her angry eyes slowly slide from Brynjolf to Delvin then Vex and finally back to Brynjolf. "Were you in on it?" It’s amazing the fire in her eyes didn't burn him alive. "Were you in on his plan to kill me?"

"What?" The shocked Nord looks hurt and betrayed. "Lass… "

"Don't Lass me!" She snaps cutting him off. "You approached me, assuming I was a thief. After I told you I had no memories you still pursued me. Why? How was a stranger, let alone an amnesiac stranger useful to the guild?" She took another look around the Cistern waiting for an answer. Eyes returning to Brynjolf. "I did what was asked of me. After most of my memories returned, you still asked for my help. I mean… " She doesn't try to hide her self-deprecating chuckles. "I had already done some pretty shitty stuff for you… so why not? Against the wishes of my cousin… " She looks at Marcurio then back to Brynjolf. " ...I helped you with Maven Black-Briar and I helped you find out who's sabotaging the guild. Turns out Karliah has a pretty damn good reason to sabotage you fuckers."

Karliah attempts to give Makela's shoulder a grateful squeeze from behind. She leans forward, away from the Dunmer's touch, angry at her role in this debacle. Jenassa gives the thief a warm look advising her to give Makela some time.

"She didn't kill Gallus." Makela pulls Gallus' journal from her pack and throws it at Brynjolf. "Guess who did."

Brynjolf catches the book that hit him in the chest harder than he expected. He looks up at her before opening it.

"Do you want a hint?" Makela calmly asks before snapping into full-on rage mode. "HIS NAME IS MERCER FUCKING FREY!" She yells, her voice reverberating throughout the Cistern. The fury within her getting more intense.

As soon as she explodes, Marcurio dispels his magicka, and wraps his arms around her from the side. At the same time, Vorstag shifts his body in front of her, more to shield Brynjolf than her. If she breaks free from Marcurio's hold, there's no doubt she's going to attack the thief. Jenassa moves closer to her, facing the thieves in case they start to attack. Although Erik is stunned by Makela’s anger, he backs up towards her, ready to protect his friend.

"The motherfucker that stabbed me and left me for dead in a fucking Nord tomb, killed your last guild master." Tears of anger streaming down her face. "You sent me to my death and all I did was help you."

As she finishes her last sentence, Marcurio whispers a calming spell only she can hear. He offers an apologetic smile when Makela turns to him in disbelief. He knows she hates calming spells, especially if they’re used on her. She feels as if she’s being treated like some wild animal that needs to be tamed. However, Marcurio had to think fast to tamp down some of the swelling rage within Makela. 

Understanding if she were to get any angrier, Dremora Valkynaz would be called to finish this altercation before it started. One of the memories Makela doesn’t recall is the fact that the Dremora sense her emotions and act on them. If she's scared or angry they defend her, at any cost. If she's more playful around an enemy, the Dremora tend to keep them in check. They won’t kill anyone if she doesn't feel threatened. Had he been at Winstad Manor the day the Dark Brotherhood attacked her; he may have been able to prevent some of the deaths. Maybe.

This situation is different from that incident. Makela has developed close relationships with many of the members of the Thieves Guild. She considers a few of them her friends. Right now, she feels betrayed and hurt. When the haze of the pain and anger fade, if any of the guild members have been harmed or killed due to her actions, she will be devastated. Marcurio won’t allow his cousin to endure the pain of having their blood on her hands. 

After a few seconds, Makela relaxes in Marcurio’s arms. Every thief in the room stands quietly in disbelief. Vex and Delvin both look at the journal as Brynjolf pages through it. 

"Makela!" A hooded thief approaches, stepping between her and Vorstag. "It's okay, Makela." He hesitantly pulls his hood down. 

"Etienne?" She whispers, recognizing the blonde man from the torture chamber in the Thalmor Embassy. 

"Yes." His grateful smile is almost soothing. "I understand how you feel, Makela. You feel betrayed by these guys." He looks around at the group of thieves. "Believe me, I know the feeling. They're selfish and oblivious." His statement drips with animosity and resentment. "Of course, they wouldn't notice they've put a newbie in danger. Maybe they should've questioned their guild master; he's been behaving suspiciously, haven't seen him in weeks."

"Weeks?" Karliah surprised and concerned Mercer may have escaped. "Where could he be?"

"Who knows? He doesn't answer to the guild," Etienne replies. He gives Brynjolf a look filled with disappointment, before turning back to Makela. "I owe you my life. If the guild and their guild master are a threat to you, they are a threat to me. I will fight by your side." He turns and stands beside Vorstag prepared to defend the woman who saved him. His hands hover above his daggers as he hesitates to unsheathe them.

"What does all this mean?" Brynjolf asks gesturing toward the book. 

Karliah cautiously works her way around Makela and Marcurio then stands between Vorstag and Etienne. She explains how Gallus had suspected Mercer of stealing from the guild for years and that Mercer had killed the leader and falsely accused her. Of course, the three senior members of the guild have a hard time believing a woman that went missing for 25 years. The three of them threw out every possible argument of why Mercer would never betray Gallus or the guild. 

"Check the coffers." Makela yells, tired of listening to them defend Mercer. "He's been missing for weeks. Did he leave empty-handed?"

Vex bursts into laughter. "You're a fool like I always thought.” Although her tone is condescending, there is a flicker of concern on her face. “He can't get into the safe without a second key from a senior member." She glares directly at Makela. "So, take your silly theories and go back where you came from."

Makela wriggles out of her cousin’s arms, after reassuring him she's calm. "Then prove this fool wrong," she demands, stepping around Vorstag and stopping directly in Vex's face. "What do you have to lose?"

She and Karliah watch as the senior members open the vault. She suppresses a smile of vindication when Brynjolf wails in horror after finding Mercer had indeed stolen everything from them. “By the Gods, how could this happen?” Brynjolf growls, walking out of the vault. “One key will not work and it’s impossible to pick the lock.”

“He doesn’t need to pick the lock,” Karliah tells him.

“What do you mean?”

“This is where we part ways.” Makela interrupts the two thieves before Karliah can answer the question. She looks over at her team. “Let’s go find this Esbern.” 

“Wait!” Brynjolf steps toward Makela, hoping she’ll talk to him.

Makela ignores him and approaches Etienne. “Thank you for standing by my side. I hope this doesn’t cause problems for you.”

“Don’t worry about me, my friend.” Etienne smiles warmly at her. “I’ll be fine.”

Makela smiles back, then starts walking toward the Ragged Flagon. Refusing to acknowledge any of the other guild members, she keeps her eyes straight ahead.

“Lass… Makela,” Brynjolf calls out. “We have to find Mercer.”

“Good luck,” Makela calls out as she opens the door to the Ragged Flagon.

“Makela, please." Karliah’s voice is filled with remorse. “Please help us find Mercer.”

Makela pauses at the door for a few seconds. Despite the way they had treated her when she arrived, she felt obliged to help them. The anger she felt for Brynjolf and Vex warred with the camaraderie she felt with Rune, Tonilia, and the others. In addition, she had her own reason to go after Mercer - revenge. 

Jenassa, Vorstag, and Erik stand behind Makela, waiting for her to go through the door or respond. 

“Oh, for the love of Mara.” Standing behind Makela, Marcurio heaves a frustrated sigh, sensing Makela’s hesitance. “What is it about these people?” He steps closer to his cousin. “You owe them nothing." He releases one more sigh, "But if you want to help them, I will support you.”

Makela looks at Marcurio still uncertain if she should help.

“All I ask is that you deal with your goals first. We find Esbern then you go back to Honeyside to rest and have dinner. We’ll come back tomorrow to help them.” He looks back at Karliah and Brynjolf, then back to Makela. “They’ve waited 25 years; they can wait one more day. Do we have a deal?”

Makela nods in agreement. “I’ll be back tomorrow, to help you find Mercer,” she shouts over her shoulder to Brynjolf and Karliah. She steps through the door before they can respond, followed by Marcurio, Jenassa, and Erik. 

Before going through the door, Vorstag turns to see Karliah and Brynjolf trailing behind them. Making sure the two thieves can't get to Makela, he shouts, “No!” and the two immediately stop. “Leave her be. Wait until tomorrow or find Mercer yourself.”

Brynjolf and Karliah both nod in agreement before Vorstag leaves, slamming the door behind him.


End file.
